


The Cipher Conspiracy

by amadscientistapproaches



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Addiford, Double O Sixer AU, GOSH, I am trash for these ships, I had SUCH a brainwave for this thing, Is this a slow burn?, Multi, Starla - Freeform, better take note of the hyphens too, gratuitous use of ellipses, it might be a slow burn, it was unbelievable, look at that punctuation, seriously, so cute, sometimes you just need a hug, spy AU, the moral of this fic is, vaguely described psychological torture and trauma, which is necessary because:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-11 18:09:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 92,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13529760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amadscientistapproaches/pseuds/amadscientistapproaches
Summary: Stanley Pines does NOT work for the FBI. Neither him nor they wish to be associated with each other like that. He will say he works WITH the FBI though, as a result of a lot of craziness spanning the ten years since he and his brother were kicked ou- left home. And despite mostly having his life back on track, for once, it is for this reason that he doesn't feel at all guilty about immediately dropping his semi-official-but-not-really work placement there when a postcard arrives for him. A postcard with a six-fingered hand on it, which can only belong to someone he hasn't seen in half a decade.Ahahahh I have IDEAS. The lovely Adeline Marks is hntrgurl13's OC, the wonderful Addiford ship belongs to Purpledragon6, and Madeline McGucket is missinspi's fantastic OC. I don't know if the Spy AU belongs to anyone or if it's just a general thing, but if it does, let me know; this was mostly inspired by hntrgurl13's (and that one story anon’s) version of it either way.:)





	1. Numero Uno

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in modern times because I need my technology and same-sex marriage dammit!
> 
> Also, because this is a Spy AU, everyone is like, 100% more proficient at flirting and general sauciness XD
> 
> Edit: okay so I've had two people comment on this so far, and both have asked if Bill's a human. The answer is yes, everyone is human, and there is nothing supernatural going on at all. It is JUST a spy AU.

**Sacramento, California (USA)** ∆

Stanley Pines knocked briefly on the office door before making his way inside and sitting familiarly in a chair. _Not_ the comfy swivel chair behind the desk. That hadn’t been appreciated when he’d tried it.

“I’m finished for the day,” he said, stretching his arms out behind his head.

“Must be nice,” huffed Senior Special Agent Carla McCorkle of the FBI from over at her filing cabinet.

 _Oh. One of_ those _days._

“Case not going well?”

“It _would_ be, if one of these idiots could get me the right information, and not lead me on a wild goose chase TO THE PIZZA PARLOUR!” she finished in a shout, turning to direct it across the hall at the office opposite hers. A muffled (and maybe English-accented?) yell answered her, but the words couldn’t be discerned. Although Stan was pretty sure they weren’t polite.

He frowned. “You need me to teach that guy a lesson?”

“Believe me, I already did,” Carla flashed a malevolent grin and walked past him back to her desk.

“That’s my girl!” He took the opportunity to pat her butt. Instantly, she whipped around and gave him a death glare that made him quail. “Okay! Okay! Sorry!”

_Not the time. Got it._

A tower of files was dumped on the desk, enough to obscure Carla when she sat down in the coveted swivel chair. Not for the first time, Stan was immensely glad that he had never completed the FBI training course. Best to leave the paperwork to people who actually had the patience to get through it, like Carla, or Fo-

“Y’know, we were getting so close. What the hell happened? Suddenly we can’t gain an _inch_ on these guys!”

“These guys being the-” Stan stood up and looked at the name on the topmost file – “Cipher Wheel?”

“Yep. Whoever’s running the show goes by Bill Cipher, according to rumour. We don’t have anything concrete to back that up, though,”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Stan said easily. Carla grunted unhappily.

 _Time to break out the big guns,_ he decided.

He stepped between Carla and the desk, the chair rolling backwards. She didn’t look happy to have her work interrupted, but Stan was confident that that would change soon.

“I have a present for you,” he told her, putting his hands on the chair’s armrests.

“Pines,” she warned.

“You’ll enjoy it, I promise,”

“We’re at the FBI!”

He leaned closer. Before she could threaten to eject him from the building, he shoved a hand in his jacket pocket and brought out a white-petalled flower. While she stared at it, he tried to keep the smugness off his face.

“You lost your other one,” he shrugged, by way of explanation.

For the first time since she’d gotten to work, Carla laughed slightly.

_Mission accomplished._

She took the flower and kissed him gently. “See you back home?”

“You know it, babe,”

As he was leaving, Stan gave a mock salute and said, “Until tomorrow, Special Agent McCorkle,”

“That’s _Senior_ Special Agent McCorkle, Mr Pines,”

When Carla made it back to their apartment (a full three hours later than himself), she had the flower tucked behind her ear.

 

 **Manhattan, New York (USA)** ∆

“Fidds, what the hell happened?” Agent Adeline Marks stared in shock at her partner, who was covered from head to toe in muck. His normally green suit was completely brown and black.

With as much dignity as he could muster, Agent Fiddleford McGucket took off his glasses and wiped them clean, then placed them back on his long nose. “I’ve just crawled through five hundred heckin’ metres of basement to fix our gosh-darn processin’ system, and I don’t think it was worth it,”

Addi stared at him pityingly for a moment. “You could have waited for the clean-up crew to get rid of the mess down there,”

“I was getting frustrated, and I wasn’t sure they weren’t goin’ to reschedule again.” He sighed. “They wouldn’t keep doin’ that if they knew what our building was a cover for.”

Addi nodded, and Fiddleford knew she was wistfully reminiscing of the prioritisation they had had before their branch was supposedly shut down.

“Well anyway, you know we’ve got a meeting now? I think it’s a new assignment,” she said.

Fiddleford groaned as he looked down at himself, and then back at the mud trail he had left coming through the elevator doors. It had _definitely_ not been worth it. A passing agent slipped in the tracks, papers flying everywhere.

“Alrighty, let’s get this over with,” _Quickly, so I can have a shower._

They headed up to their boss’s floor.

 

 **Sacramento, California (USA)** ∆

“Hope you like fish! It’s all we had,” called Stan from the stove as Carla dumped her bag on the couch.

“Smells great,” she said in relief, wrapping her arms around him from behind and burying her head in the crook of his neck.

“Jeez, you really need a holiday,” said Stan, knowing what the answer would be.

“Not until the case is done,” she mumbled.

“And then you gotta _promise_ you’ll give it a rest for a while,”

“You betcha. I am so sick of these hours,”

They stayed like that for a little while, until Stan noticed the fish was burning. As he hurriedly took it off the heat and waved away the smoke, Carla sat down at the kitchen table and examined their mail.

“Bills, neighbours having a party tomorrow, more bills – huh. A postcard,”

“Well, I don’t have any friends – any who want to contact me anyway – and all yours live around here. So who’s it from?” Stan set a plate down in front of her.

“Doesn’t say, exactly.” She looked up at him curiously. “Take a look.” She passed it over as he sat down on the opposite side of the table.

The postcard showed a forest and a cliff-face with a waterfall running down it. In big orange and green block letters, the words ‘Gravity Falls’ were emblazoned across it.

“Never heard of it,” said Stan, and turned it over. He almost dropped it in shock. As Carla had said, there was no address, no message, not even a name. There _was_ a drawing. A hand. A six-fingered hand.

He looked up at Carla. “Ford?”

“It looks like it,” she nodded, clasping her hands in front of her face. “It’s been, what, five years?”

Stan took a deep breath. “I – I’ve gotta-” He stood up and ran his hands through his hair, staring between her and the postcard helplessly.

“Yeah I know! Go!” Carla said, smiling widely and standing up as well. “Come on, you have to pack!”

Stan laughed incredulously as they raced to the bedroom. He was feeling simultaneously scared and overjoyed. Before Carla could extract his suitcase, he pulled her in for a hard kiss and hugged her tightly.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,”

“No, it’s okay, take your time. I think you’ll need to. He wouldn’t have contacted you unless he needed something,”

Well, that hurt. But she was right. It wasn’t Ford’s fault, not really, and truth be told they hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms. He should be glad he was getting to see his brother at all.

“I should probably bring some cereal,”

“Good idea,”

 

 **Manhattan, New York (USA)** ∆

The Oracle Division had been created for the sole purpose of finding and eliminating the worldwide threat posed by an organisation known as the Cipher Wheel. The only problem was, as they soon found, no one had ever knowingly encountered an agent of this organisation. No one had ever admitted to having dealings with the organisation, even through a middle-man. There wasn’t even any evidence to back up the rumour that the head of the organisation’s name was Bill Cipher. So far, the only thing that the agency had managed to collect was a wide variety of symbols that the criminal underground had used in connection with the Cipher Wheel. Of course, they had so far led nowhere. Still, the government maintained that it existed.

So, due to the extreme lack of work available for the Oracle Division, it was a very small agency, and until anything to do with the Cipher Wheel was brought to their attention it was assigned other cases for efficiency purposes. Furthermore, as the Oracle Division was classified in an ultra-top-secret manner, it had to be hidden. Thus, why it had recently been relocated to a tiny five-storey building in Manhattan.

Adeline reflected on this as Fiddleford knocked on their director’s door. It was still surreal knowing they were the only field operatives in the whole agency.

“Come in,”

They entered.

“Well, agents, I’m sure you know – Fiddleford, are you okay?”

Fiddleford dripped onto the carpet. “Sorry ma’am, I was seein’ to the processing system,”

“Well, you have my thanks. It really did need something done for it. You’ll be hailed as a hero tomorrow.” The director smiled. “I’ll make this quick so you can go clean yourself up.”

“Thank you,” Fiddleford sighed.

“As I was saying, I’m sure you’ve guessed why you’re here,”

“You have a mission for us,” Addi said.

“Correct.” The tall, dark-skinned woman stood up from behind her desk and turned on a projector. An image of a bemused-looking woman appeared on the blank stretch of wall.

“This is Dr Jane Hansen. She is a chemist who has developed a new material with extraordinary refractive, reflective, and focal properties, called shimmern. This could be used to revolutionise the technological industry, for instance providing greater laser capabilities, enhancing computer operations, and creating a far cheaper way to manufacture stealth products.” The director nodded approvingly at Addi and Fiddleford’s raised eyebrows.

“Dr Hansen, however, is a very gentle soul who has insisted on using the only existing sample to create a fabulous piece of jewellery for her wife, which made our superiors rather frustrated,” the director said with a small smile.

The image changed to show a photo of Dr Hansen in her house, presenting a glittery, tear-shaped pendant on a silver chain to another woman. The picture was taken through the leaves of a bush.

“Aww,” said Addi. It was a very sweet scene, captured forever in an ethically questionable manner. “So, you want us to obtain that necklace?” she asked, switching back to professionalism.

“Of course. As well as the method she used to create it. We’ve been asked to hold onto it until our superiors have had a chance to study, and presumably replicate, it – as Dr Hansen has made it clear she has no interest allowing it to be used for weapons or stealth technology,” the director said with only the vaguest hint of approval.

“I assume the plans’re all stored electronically?” asked Fiddleford.

“Yes, Agent McGucket,”

“Then it’ll be an easy workday, ma’am,”

“Good to hear. Dr Hansen is planning on unveiling her creation at the Centro Congressi Giovanni XXIII Convention Centre three days from now. It will be a very classy event, so, Agent Marks, I assume you have some very classy clothes?”

Addi grinned at the director. She was looking forward to this assignment. “Of course, Jheselbraum,”

 

 **Gravity Falls, Oregon (USA)** ∆

Stan walked cautiously up the stairs to the porch of 618 Gopher Road. It was a very isolated house, nestled in a forest, and yet Stan couldn’t help but feel watched. Like there were eyes pointed at him from all directions. Considering this was apparently where Ford lived, though, that wasn’t exactly surprising. He’d probably been scanned no less than eighteen times since stepping out of the car.

Trying to convince himself that everything was fine, is fine, would be fine, he knocked on the door. It was flung open instantly, and he looked down the barrel of a gun.

His hand was coming up almost as soon as the door started opening. Stan slapped it away from his face and into his other hand where he flipped it around and caught it in a two-handed grip pointing at his opponent.

Ford beamed and said, “Well done, Stanley. It’s good to see you haven’t lost your skills.” Then he stood aside as though it was perfectly normal to brandish weapons at your family members.

“I’m fine, by the way.” Stan muttered as he stepped inside. “Might’ve pissed myself, but I’m fine.”

“I assume you found my message?” asked Ford, holding out his hand for the gun, which Stan wasn’t exactly eager to return.

“You mean the one written in invisible ink on the mysterious postcard with a cryptic drawing?”

“Yes, that one,”

“Yeah Ford, I found it. Been doing that since we were kids.” Stan rolled his eyes. “But an address and ‘Please come’? You had me worried, bro.”

“I’m sorry, but there wasn’t much else I could say. I didn’t want to risk it falling into the wrong hands. By the way, you burnt that, didn’t you?”

Stan nodded. As they spoke, his eyes roamed around, taking in everything they could. Ford didn’t look like he was in any trouble. He seemed completely normal, if a bit manic, but he had been that way forever. At least he wasn’t in some deep danger like Stan had been had been fearing. Five years of silence, and then ‘Please come’? _Worried_ was an understatement: he had almost had a heart failure.

The large room they were standing in was absolutely covered in things with _Ford_ written all over them. Maybe even literally, if he had been indulging in the invisible ink. Technology, gadgets, weird substances in science beakers, it was all there.

Ford was looking at him oddly, with an awkward half-grin on his face like he wasn’t sure what else to say. Guess it was up to Stan to make the next move.

_Crap._

He didn’t know what to do either. It was getting weird now. Should he try for a hug? No, that would make it even worse. Ford was still standing there, and now they were staring at each other. Just when Stan was on the verge of yelling “NON-SPECIFIC EXCUSE!” and making a break for it, his brother spoke up.

“So . . . you’re working for the FBI now?”

“Oh, er, you know about that?” _Of course he does, it’s Ford_. “And it’s more like _with_ , not for. I’ve got connections and such, I know people. Useful for them, and I get paid when they need me, so I’m not complaining,”

Ford nodded, like this was exactly what he had wanted to hear. _This is getting stranger by the minute._

“How did that happen?” This time, the question was genuinely curious, not prying for information, or confirmation, or whatever.

“Heh, well, remember Carla, from back in Glass Shard Beach? She works for ‘em now. Found me in California about four years ago, arrested me on a case, I put the moves on her,” he waggled his eyebrows and Ford snorted disbelievingly, “she couldn’t resist, and the rest is history.” Not exactly true. He’d completely fallen for her all over again as soon as she had laughed in recognition while handcuffing him. Then he’d bargained for a job and sold out his co-conspirators.

“It was surprising to learn you went back into law enforcement, or some semblance of it,” said Ford.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I just never would have expected it of you, especially after the way you gave up your training when we were both at the FBI,”

Stan frowned. “The way I gave it up?”

Ford tilted his head. “Well you didn’t exactly quit in a regular fashion,”

“I didn’t quit, they ran me off the property!”

“Yes, because you were idiot enough to accept a drunken bet and try to steal secure files! That practically sealed your life as a criminal!”

“Well let me remind you _why_ I was off getting drunk that night. A certain high-paying job offer from a shady government agency ring a bell?”

“Stanley, we have had this conversation before. They offered _you_ the exact same deal!”

“Which _you_ were all too eager to accept! A deal, by the way, which included completely cutting off all ties with family and friends,”

They were glaring at each other now, and were unconsciously tensing for a fight. Things had gotten heated even more rapidly than Stan had expected.

“That was not a permanent arrangement, Stanley, as is clear from your presence here right now,”

“It’s the principle of the thing that matters, Ford! You just upped and ditched me, like you couldn’t wait to get rid of me!”

“ _You’re_ talking to _me_ about principles and ditching? The last time I saw you was five years ago, when you led the FBI to my apartment after attempting to steal from them, broke in, yelled at me while grabbing all my cereal, and then climbed out the window! I am assuming that was all deliberate, as when the FBI kicked down my door they thought I was you and arrested me!”

“Well, in your words, that wasn’t a ‘permanent arrangement’ and they sorted it out eventually,”

They lapsed into silence, the air between them practically sizzling. Stan had said enough, had had enough. He’d come here to help Ford if he could, and he’d hoped to maybe patch things up, but it didn’t look as though Ford was all that inclined t-

“I didn’t mean to abandon you, Stan,” Ford admitted, frowning angrily at him. Stan blinked. Carla’s words immediately came to him: _he wouldn’t have contacted you unless he needed something_. However, if this was a ploy to get his help, it was pretty sincere.

“Although your actions didn’t make it easy to apologise. Furthermore, taking my cereal was incredibly petty.” Ford waited, looking closely at him, seeing how he would respond. Stan was tempted to start up another argument over Ford’s hypocrisy in calling him petty – he wasn’t the one still sore about cereal. Instead, he was reminded forcefully of his brother as a kid, and what one of his first thoughts had been to do when he thought he’d gotten a chance to see Ford again. He’d been half-convinced he never would, what with the super-secret job Ford had taken.

Stan pulled a box of cereal out of his bag and handed it mutely to his brother, who stared.

And stared some more.

And laughed. And pulled him into a hug.

“It’s good to see you again,”

“Yeah, you too bro,”

_Well that was easy._

Ford gave him a tour of the house. As he memorised the layout of it, Stan noticed that Ford didn’t seem able to confine his inventions to the main workroom – and they _were_ Ford’s inventions. Stan guessed his brother’s brain was the main reason he had attracted attention from the government.

“Ford, not that I’m complaining, but why am I really here?”

Ford grinned and stepped back into the workroom. He picked a thick, red-bound book off a bench. “For this,”

Stan took the book. It had a gold, six-fingered hand emblazoned on it, similar to the one on the post-card. He opened it to where it was bookmarked.

All the words were in code, but it was a code he and Ford had used since they were kids. It was like a second language to Stan, and he read it easily.

“What’s shimmern?” he asked, looking at a hand-drawn picture of a pendant on a chain.

“A new kind of material.” Ford had an excited look in his eyes. “There’s only one sample in existence, in fact. My assignment is to appropriate, and eventually replicate, it. You’re here because I want your help,”

Stan noticed with some elation that Ford had specifically said “want” not “need”.

“This would be much easier with you, Stan. Like you already said, you have contacts. You’re good with people, not to mention you haven’t lost the skills you had five years ago,”

“I’m in,” said Stan without hesitation. “but don’t you have a partner to help you out? Pretty sure that’s what’s supposed to happen when you work for the government.”

Ford cleared his throat. “That’s not how _we_ do things. Our missions are carried out entirely without assistance from other agents. There’s less chance of a leak that way,”

No matter what his brother’s test scores said, to Stan, Ford was as easy to read as a child’s book.

“Ford . . . you do work for the government, don’t you?”

His brother shifted now, not even attempting to lie under Stan’s scrutiny. “You don’t have to worry, we aren’t working against anyone. We’re primarily research-based,”

“What kind of research needs highly-trained field agents with no connections?”

“I’ve told you all I can,” Ford said firmly, with a hint of apology.

Ever since he and Ford had both been made an offer during the training course for the FBI, Stan had assumed it had been some sort of government branch, the CIA or something. However, the more he thought about, there was absolutely nothing to support this assumption. In short, Ford had him worried. Again.

Even more reason to stick close to him then.

“Okay, I’m still on board. How do we get this thing?”

“Italy, three days from now. We have a party to attend,” Ford said mischievously, and again Stan was reminded of the plans they’d come up with as kids, specifically the more notorious ones.

“I’m gonna need my fake IDs again,”

 

∆ 

“Hey Fordsy, how’d it go?” Bill Cipher said, sitting ramrod straight in Ford’s desk chair and swivelling around in it as the elevator doors opened to the basement.

“Good,” Ford replied. “We’re ready for the assignment. Or we will be soon. Stan has to sort a few things out first,”

When he’d first met his employer, Ford had been slightly disturbed by his too-wide smile, eyes that blinked less than a person’s normally would, and far more familiar demeanour than befitted the director of a shadow organisation. Now, he knew it was just one of Bill’s quirks.

“I hope you understand how lenient I’m being, letting your brother in on this. Not that I have anything against him, swell guy I’m sure, but of all the people to choose . . . I mean, really? Didn’t he used to be a bit – what’s the word? Oh yeah. Impulsive. Reckless. Untrustworthy. Take your pick. From what I’ve seen, smart guy, you are far more capable on your own. I don’t want him dragging you down or anything, _numero uno_ ,”

“Stan was just angry before. I promise that he will be more focused on this, and he will be a valuable asset,” Ford assured him quickly. It had taken over a year for Bill to come around to the idea of letting Stan meet up with him, and Ford was sure he had only agreed because he knew how ridiculously stubborn Ford could be.

_Or because it was affecting your work._

The thought was immediately brushed away. Bill was right to be concerned about Stan. The organisation he had built was founded on levels of secrecy unlike any Ford had previously encountered. Any breach of that could bring it all crashing down. So yes, allowing Ford to bring someone in was a risk, he understood that. And so what if Bill _had_ only agreed because their argument five years ago was eating away at Ford enough to disturb his performance in the field and the lab? That just proved how much Bill trusted, valued, and even cared, about him.

“Alright Sixer, we’ll try this your way. Just keep the objective in sight, you know what I mean?”

If there was one thing Ford was certain about in his line of work, it was that Bill Cipher was a good guy.

“Yes sir,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol no Stangst here. Just a bit of disGrunklement, because I don't have time for emotional heart to hearts right now, I need to get this PLOT out!
> 
> Yeah, so . . . Jheselbraum. I hope I'm kind of getting her character right, because I still haven't read Journal 3. Shame.
> 
> Spy trope No.1: stating locations  
> Spy trope No.2: being under investigation by the FBI  
> Spy trope No.3: evading the government  
> Spy trope No.4: lots of backstory for characters  
> Spy trope No.5: cool gun skills  
> Spy trope No.6: recruitment  
> Spy trope No.7: dramatic reveal of superior officers


	2. A Couple of Dynamic Duos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't get over how fun it is to write this thing. I wish it could be done already!
> 
> Again, I haven't read Journal 3, so that's why the way Ford writes is probably not as great as it could be.

**Sacramento, California (USA)** ∆

“You’re _where_?” Carla exclaimed into the phone. Stan’s voice replied, in a suitably sheepish manner.

_“At the airport, getting on a plane to Italy,”_

She was dumbfounded. Not replying for a few moments, she tried to collect her thoughts. _What made me ever agree to date this man?_

“Why?” she asked.

_“Well, you know how I told you Ford was working for some super-secret agency?”_

“Yeah,”

_“It’s to do with that,”_

Carla thought about this. “You’re not doing something illegal, are you?”

Stan laughed nervously. _“What? No, it’s for the government. Probably. The government can’t do illegal things. Name one time when the government has broken the law. Don’t answer that, it was rhetorical,”_

“Did you say ‘probably’?”

_“Carla, I love you.”_

“Don’t change the subject!”

_“See in a few days babe, and I’ll call you tonight,”_

“Let me talk to Ford,”

_“Nope, sorry, he’s already through the gate,”_

“Stan, wait!”

Surprisingly, he did. “I love you too,” she finished after a moment.

Ten minutes later, when she turned on her computer, there was a momentary glitch, and colours jittered across the screen. She thought she saw the word “Oracle” and some sort of logo, but in less than a second it was gone.

 

 **Orio al Serio International Airport, Bergamo (Italy)** ∆

“Stetson?” inquired the passport control officer.

“Pinefield, that’s me,” nodded Stan. The officer gave him a strange look and examined the fake passport again. Ford was waiting up ahead, having already gone through customs using the self-operated machines. Stan, of course, had been pulled aside for an in-depth background check. There wasn’t a problem with the passport (he knew that because Ford’s had worked fine while being just as fake as his), so he must look shifty. Unsurprising, really.

Stan gave an audible sigh of relief as the officer let him go with a _“benvenuto a Bergamo”_. He’d have to get used to this again if he wanted to stay under the radar.

“Why do I get picked on and you don’t? We look exactly the same,” grumbled Stan as he and Ford started walking away.

“You’re scruffier. They like neat people, like _moi_ ,”

“I’m presentable aren’t I? And you, neat? Are you kidding? I’ve seen your house,”

“Your fly’s unzipped,”

“. . . dammit,”

They continued bickering until they had picked up their hire car. Stan was incredibly happy despite this, and he could tell Ford was too by his obvious attempts at fighting back a grin. It had been a while since they’d been brothers, and it was good to get back to how things should be.

“I’m driving. I don’t trust you not to get distracted and run into a pole or something,” Stan said, getting behind the wheel. Ford huffed.

“Okay, so what’s the plan? How are we gonna do this?”

Ford pulled out the red journal he had shown Stan in Gravity Falls. “We want to do it with maximum efficiency and minimum fuss. For this reason, our only objective is Dr Hansen’s necklace – or rather Mrs Hansen’s necklace. The chemist’s wife should be wearing it to the event,”

Stan grinned. “If I can see it, I can steal it,”

“Exactly. We don’t need the method used to make it. That would incur an unnecessary risk. Once I analyse the material, I should be able recreate it myself. The first step, however, is getting invited to the venue: Centro Congressi Giovanni XXIII Convention Centre. I was hoping you could help with that?”

“Sixer, I know people in practically every country on Earth. I can do that, and more,”

 

 **Mercure Bergamo Centro Palazzo Dolci hotel, Bergamo (Italy)** ∆

“There it is,” Adeline said, looking out the window and across the street at the convention centre. She was beginning to get the thrill of being on a mission again, and it felt _good._ Behind her, Fiddleford sat on the couch and examined his laptop, studious as always.

“Alrighty, Jheselbraum’s sent through Dr Hansen’s schedule. How d’you want to – well hello,” he said thoughtfully.

“What is it?” Addi sat down beside him and examined the screen.

“The Hansens are stayin’ in the same hotel as us,”

A plan began forming in Addi’s mind as she looked at the timetable, and she could see wheels turning for her friend as well.

“It says the official presentation is tomorrow at eleven o’clock in the convention centre, but there’ll be an informal meet-up in the bar here an hour afterwards. Isn’t _that_ interesting.” Addi smiled wolfishly. “How fast do you think you can get into the good doctor’s room, hack into her computer, and retrieve the method?”

“Pretty dang fast. An hour’ll be plenty of time,”

“Good. While you do that, I’ll lift the necklace from Mrs Hansen, and we’ll be away before they know it. Simple!”

“You’ll just lift it from her?” Fiddleford said sceptically.

“Yeah, it’ll be easy! Where there’s bars there’s drinks, and where there’s drinks, there’s _opportunities_ ,” she said coquettishly.

“Oh for the love of-” Fiddleford groaned. “I don’t want to have to listen to you seducin’ people while I’m tryna hack into a secure, and probably encrypted, computer, Addi,”

“Oh? I’m _distracting_ am I?”

“Yer gross is what you are,”

“I’m still better than you,”

“Yeah? Which one of us is married?”

“Hmmph,” Before she could gather a sufficiently witty rebuttal, Addi’s phone rang. She stood up and answered.

_“Agent Marks?”_

She unconsciously straightened. “Jheselbraum,”

There was a pause. _“Are you standing to attention?”_

“. . . noooo,” said Addi slowly, trying to slouch.

_“I’m flattered. Did you receive the schedule I sent?”_

“Yes, and we’ve already formulated a plan of action,”

_“Efficient as always, agent. Well done. I should also inform you that the FBI investigation into the Cipher Wheel does not seem to be progressing at all. I suspect there is a mole within their department. As such, this complicates our plans to combine our efforts,”_

“But we can’t just let it drop, this is the whole reason Oracle Division exists.” Addi frowned. “Is there anyone we can trust on the case?”

_“I do have someone in mind. Can you ask Fiddleford to run a quick background check on a Senior Special Agent Carla McCorkle?”_

 

 **Arli Business & Wellness hotel, Bergamo (Italy)    **∆

Ford scribbled down the events of the day in the Journal.

_S has managed to procure an invite to the official presentation of shimmern to the world. One of the journalists attending the event owes him a favour, and so has provided us with the invitations his two original companions received. I myself have decided that it will be far easier for us to obtain the necklace at the after-party in the hotel across the street, where Dr Hansen – or more importantly, her security – will be less tense and less paranoid. There remains, however, a risk. It is far more likely than I am comfortable with that someone will notice the necklace’s absence before we are able to make a clean getaway. Unfortunately, we do not seem to have much choice in the matter._

_The presentation of shimmern is truly a monumental occasion, and I eagerly await the moment I will be able to study it myself. It is remarkable how someone has managed to create something so unique and revolutionary – a stroke of genius. I would like to think that I could also accomplish something so prestigious, but unfortunately, I doubt I will have the time. The path I have chosen does not allow much leeway with regards to **personal** ambition. However, perhaps one day, when I am no longer a field agent . . ._

_Speaking of ‘personal’, it is extremely gratifying to have my brother around again. S is a great help, with both the mission and my peace of mind. I am glad that we no longer carry around the bitterness that has plagued us for so long. In fact, it seems quite childish now. He has shown he is utterly capable of fieldwork once again, and is very focused –_

“Hey poindexter, what’s with the book?”

Ford looked up, slightly disoriented.

“Oh, this? It’s a record of my missions and assignments,”

Stan’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s kind of dangerous, isn’t it? What if someone gets a hold of it? You should put it on a computer or something,”

“Computers can be hacked, and no one’s going to get a hold of it because I keep it safe at all times. Besides, I don’t write down the details, just a brief overview. It mostly contains my own thoughts and observations,”

“I bet it’d still be incriminating in a court of law though,”

Ford did not have an answer to that one.

 

 **Mercure Bergamo Centro Palazzo Dolci hotel, Bergamo (Italy)** ∆

The tension in Ford’s body had been rising impressively as the night wore on. When they entered the convention centre at precisely eleven, it peaked. Stan, on the other hand, had so far seemed almost inappropriately relaxed for the occasion, which just added to his own stress. Once the mission began, he would be fine, Ford knew – completely in his element and clear of mind. Waiting, however, was a different matter entirely.

Fortunately, the presentation had gone off without a hitch, earning many gasps of wonder and exclamations of “How can it be?!” from fellow scientists. The journalists had been suitably amazed, the corporate representatives understandably interested. Now, all the spectators had reconvened at the bar across the street, making for a very classy after-party what with the way everyone was dressed, and which completely surpassed everyone’s usual standards: the amount of alcohol being consumed was very undignified.

It was time for the operation to begin.

Ford walked with Stan towards the edge of the bar room, feeling his paranoia begin to recede, intent on searching for Mrs Lalita Hansen.

“Okay, I think I have something that’ll make this easier.” Stan discreetly removed something from the pocket of his suit jacket and opened his hand to reveal a sparkling pendant on a silver chain.

“Oh my-!”

“It’s a decoy,”

“Oh. Right, of course,”

“This way we don’t have to draw any attention by leaving early, and they won’t know it’s missing until they get it back under a microscope, or whatever it is they’re going to do with it,”

“It looks like a perfect copy,” Ford said, turning the necklace over in his hands.

“Yeah, just don’t drop it. Apparently it’s only glass,”

Gingerly, Ford handed it back.

 

∆

There was a crowd of admirers surrounding Lalita Hansen, all fawning over the jewel on her neck, and a few security officers were also stationed around the place. One problem at a time.

Stan changed direction and walked over to the bar instead.

“Dr Hansen says she wants a round of drinks for everyone,” he told the bartender.

“Another one?”

“Uh, yeah,”

“WOOHOO!” A rush of people swamped the area, clamouring for more drinks. Stan grabbed one for himself before making his way over to the opposite end of the room, where Lalita was now talking to a single journalist. Fortunately, the journalist was the same guy who had gotten Stan and Ford entrance to the convention centre, and as soon as he saw Stan on his way over, he took the hint and excused himself.

“Lalita?” asked Stan. The Thai woman turned towards him and smiled brightly. “Stetson Pinefield, pleased to meet you.”

 

∆

The mike crackled in Fiddleford’s ear, and Addi’s agitated voice came through.

_“We have a problem,”_

“Really? Is the plan you came up with in two seconds having trouble?” he said facetiously, fiddling with the lock on the door to Dr Hansen’s room.

_“Not the time. There’s someone else here for the necklace. They’re talking to Mrs Hansen right now,”_

Fiddleford paused momentarily. “That’s a turn of events right there,”

 _“I’ll say. It’s probably another agency who didn’t get the memo that this was_ our _gig. We’ve had cross-assignment problems before,”_

“Can you get it before them?”

_“I think so – wait a moment. What the heck?”_

Fiddleford stopped working entirely. “You okay?”

 _“Yeah it’s just – how is he_ doing _this? She’s_ married _! And a_ lesbian _!”_

Packing his tools away and standing up, Fiddleford looked both ways up the hallway to check there was no one around. The assignment wasn’t going according to plan, and that more than likely meant he and Addi would have to make a quick getaway. He needed to get into this room.

_Thank the Lord for farmhand muscles._

Fiddleford gave the door a strong, savage kick, right next to the handle. It burst open. He could feel sweat starting to bead on his forehead, and he fervently hoped that Adeline would be able to handle things at her end on her own. He was going to be busy for a while, and he wasn’t nearly as comfortable as she was in a fight. A smile pulled at his lips. Those yahoos didn’t know what they’d gotten themselves into.

_“That was the quickest lift and switch I’ve ever seen!”_

Then again, maybe he and Addi didn’t either.

 

∆

Once she had recovered from her initial amazement, Addi went back to closely observing the situation. The man who now had the necklace was making his way back to the bar, where the crowd was dissipating. He put his empty glass on the bench and took another drink, subtly passing the necklace off to a man sitting nearby. The action was executed so smoothly that if she hadn’t been expecting something like it to happen, she never would have seen it. Then he went back and mingled with the crowds, chatting amiably, as though this was just another night out.

_Well. Time to get creative._

 

∆

Ford neatly pocketed the necklace and went back to idly listening to the conversation of the people near him. Thanks to Stan’s decoy, he did not have to rush away or make any moves that the security might recognise as even slightly suspicious. After another half-hour he could leave freely, meeting Stan back at their hotel, and then it was a simple matter of contacting Bi-

A stunning woman in a blue dress sat down next to him.

“Buy a girl a drink?” she asked, flashing him a dazzling smile.

He immediately felt his cheeks warm up and attempted a smile himself. “H-heh, okay,”

She held out her hand for him to shake. “I’m Adeline,”

“Stanford,” he replied without thinking, then cursed himself for not telling her the name on his passport. An expression of vague confusion crossed Adeline’s face, and she looked down at their joined hands.

“Six fingers,” she said, surprised. He instinctively drew back, cursing himself again.

He was caught even further off-guard at her bright and genuine reaction.

“Oh, no, sorry, it’s just – wow! Polydactyly is one of the most amazing mutations I’ve ever seen.” She gave him another smile.

_Did she really just say that? This isn’t a dream, is it? Is some sort of sleep-weapon being used on me?_

Ford was so distracted that he barely registered what Stan was saying into his earpiece.

 _“Ford, that journalist guy says he thinks he saw a spy here that he’s met before. Name of Marks. Apparently we should watch out. He wouldn’t tell me anything else though, so_ that _was super_ _helpful,”_

“Everything okay?” asked Adeline.

“Yes,” said Ford quickly, and cleared his throat.

 

∆

Fiddleford stuck a modified USB drive into the laptop and began copying every file related to shimmern onto it. While he waited he tried to tune out his partner’s flirting, and tried even harder to quash any rising big-brotherly instincts. It didn’t seem as though they were needed in this case though; he was certain he was going to hear Addi call this guy “adorably awkward” later.

_Download complete._

Fiddleford took back the USB and got to work deleting. So far, so good. All that remained was the necklace, and if things continued the way they were going, Adeline would have no problems.

 

∆

At some point his brother had started chatting up a girl. Or rather, she had started chatting him up. Stan had almost choked on his drink when he heard the conversation in his ear, and when he’d tried giving Ford suggestions he’d gotten a brief but filthy look from across the room, which had made him start laughing in the middle of someone’s drunken story about their company’s bankruptcy.

He quickly excused himself and moved on to another group of people, situated near a security guard. Stan stopped listening to this talk as well when Lalita Hansen suddenly hurried right past, making for the guard.

“-it just seems to feel a bit lighter than usual, and I thought I was just working myself up, but now I think I really need to check this. Have you seen my wife? She was out here earlier-”

_Uh oh._

Stan glanced around and spotted Dr Hansen passed out on a couch in a corner. It wouldn’t be long before Mrs Hansen saw her too and went to wake her up. Time for them to leave.

Discreetly, he extracted himself from the group and started heading for the exit. He was about to tell Ford to do the same when a hand closed around his elbow.

“Excuse me sir, Mrs Hansen would like a word,” the security guard said. Lalita Hansen was looking at Stan very suspiciously.

 

∆

“So what did you think of the presentation?” Addi asked. At some point she had moved her barstool closer to his, and it looked as though Stanford was only now realising just how little personal space he had left.

“Oh yes.” Then he winced. “I mean, it was very interesting. A significant scientific advancement such as that made the trip well worthwhile.”

“I thought so, too. Have you gotten a chance to see the necklace up close? It really is beautiful.” Addi brought her arm up and rested her wrist lightly on Stanford’s shoulder, gently stroking a hand through his hair and pretending not to notice when he leaned into the touch slightly.

“Yeah, she is,” he managed, obviously finding it hard to concentrate on what she was saying, and Addi had to fight to hold in her laughter. _This poor dork._

“It must be worth a lot.” Without Stanford’s notice, Addi moved her other hand towards his pocket, and continued, “For its material properties as well as its rarity value. I bet a lot of people would like to get their hands on it,”

Stanford’s expression shifted back into focus at that, and Addi finally let her broad, mischievous grin spread across her face. This guy was sharper than she’d given him credit for. He opened his mouth to say something.

Suddenly, she stopped playing with his hair and instead swatted his tiny, almost invisible, earpiece to the floor, simultaneously thrusting her other hand into his pocket and grabbing the necklace. Stanford barely had time to say “Compromised-!” into the mike before the device landed and she crushed it with her foot. Then she was out of her seat before he could react any further, heading for the door.

Or, at least, that was the plan.

Stanford had leapt up as well, grabbing her upper arm and jerking her back. He was _definitely_ fast.

_Well, subtlety’s already been thrown out the window, so I might as well go all the way._

She slammed the heel of her hand into his solar plexus, driving out his breath and forcing him to release her immediately. The she ran to the door, talking in her own earpiece to Fiddleford all the way, telling him to meet her at the rendezvous point. The exit was entirely unobstructed, everyone’s attention being focused elsewhere for some reason.

 

∆

Stan heard Ford’s exclamation just before the hiss of static overtook it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a glint as the girl Ford had been talking to stole the necklace and hit him hard enough to make him double over.

_Great. Only Ford . . ._

Time for that later. Ford needed a diversion so he could get the thing back. He looked at the security guard still gripping his arm.

“DISTRACTION!” he yelled as loud as he could, and punched him in the face.

 

∆

Ford finally managed to fill his lungs after an agonising couple of seconds and took off after Adeline. How the heck had she managed a trick like that? That kind of stuff _never_ worked on him!

He pushed away the furious thoughts and quickly paused to look around the outside of the hotel. Streetlights and indoor lamps illuminated everything more than sufficiently, and he saw Adeline rushing down an avenue. It was the way to the train station.

 

∆

Stan was glad he had kept up boxing. His fist swung around to meet the second security guard, catching them a good left-hook and a quick uppercut which sent them into fairyland as easily as the first. A third guard snuck up behind him, hoping to catch him by surprise. Not sneaky enough.

Stan spun to block the guard’s arm, the crackle of a taser inches from his face, raring to burrow through his skin. Not allowing for even a moment of recovery, he ducked under her raised arm, swiftly twisted again as he came up, brought the arm down and around with him so that she was forced to bend over or dislocate her elbow, and then sent a knee into her face. Out cold instantly.

The watching crowd didn’t seem to appreciate his moves though, as everyone in the bar was staring, mildly horrified, in a rapidly-sobering silence.

“DR HANSEN HAS ORDERED ANOTHER ROUND OF DRINKS!” he said wildly.

A roar of approval greeted this, and all seemed to be forgiven.

Stan hurried out after his brother and the woman who was almost definitely the mysterious spy, Agent Marks.

“Wasn’t even a proper barfight,” he muttered to himself.

All the streets were completely empty, as far as he could see. Not good. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Ford could be anywhere, he could be getting his ass kicked, or getting captured, or shot, stabbed, beaten senseless, he should be with him, _he should be with him_ , they were just getting to know each other again –

No. Shut up. They weren’t kids anymore, and Ford could take care of himself now, at least for a while. He was some big-shot secret agent, so Stan would _assume_ he could.

Either way, it did no good to panic. They’d gone through a scenario like this, hadn’t they? Back at the hotel. Ford had told him what to do if they were separated, he’d given him something . . .

The watch!

He pulled up his shirt and jacket sleeve to look at the device. Clicking a button on the side changed the display on its face to a green virtual map of the city, two dots pulsing steadily on it. The red one was Stan’s, staying reliably still. The blue one was Ford’s, and it was . . . moving rapidly away? At a pace much faster than should have been possible on foot, and fairly directly, so not on a road.

_Crap. He got on a train, didn’t he?_

 

∆

 _Okay. So, I’m on top of a train,_ Adeline thought, as the wind whipped her hair into her eyes and she struggled to keep her feet from flying away in the roaring onslaught. _I’m on top of a train, in a very chilly dress, on a dark night, about to be blown off, fighting a man who has to adjust his glasses every so often to keep them on his face, and who is_ still _able to hold his own against me._

The adrenaline rush was like nothing she had ever felt before.

_I love being a field agent._

She narrowly dodged another punch, and drew her gun from the holster on her leg. She saw Stanford’s eyes widen in surprise before he knocked the gun upwards and she fired at the sky. The knock also loosened her grip enough that a strong gust of wind tore it out of her hands in the next second.

“Well that’s no fair, now you have to give up yours!” she shouted at him playfully.

“There’s nothing to give up, Agent Marks!” he called back. “I wasn’t quite expecting a confrontation!”

_Good to know._

Addi dived back into the fight with renewed vigour, changing her usual style to try and keep both feet planted firmly on the train’s roof. Of all the ways to go out, splattered across a railway was not one she planned to let happen.

The shimmern necklace jangled in her left hand, barely heard over the rushing wind. Stanford concentrated his attacks on that side of her body, whether it was by delivering an elbow into her ribs which would definitely leave a bruise, or by whistling a punch towards her that she had to deflect on her other arm.

They separated for a moment, and Addi circled around so that she was facing into the wind. Much better. Now she could see properly.

“You know my name now, so how about you tell me who you are?” she yelled.

After a moment of consideration, he seemed to shrug slightly and hollered back as courteously as he could, “Stanford Pines! Now hand over the necklace and you might walk away from this!”

“You told me your real name at the bar? You’re adorable!”

He looked annoyed and jabbed at her. She batted the arm out of her way and countered with an elbow strike that made a satisfying crunch against his cheekbone.

She would definitely be getting Fidds to run a search for the name ‘Stanford Pines’ when she got out of this. It didn’t matter that he had her name; it wouldn’t do him any good even if he got away. Now she was wondering if she would encounter the same problem though.

As Addi spun around and tried to catch him with a backhanded blow, she got careless. She was distracted by her thoughts, and allowed her left hand, still holding the necklace, to stretch out further from her body. Quick as a snake, Stanford reached out with his right hand and caught a hold of it, snapping its clasp, the pendant flashing between them as the chain strained to keep together.

Both fighters noticed the links grow taut, and moved closer so that they wouldn’t break. If the pendant went flying off, they might never find it, and then their missions would have been for nothing. This fight would have been for nothing. Addi _really_ didn’t want that. She hadn’t been bested in combat in years, and she wasn’t about to let it happen now, but that being said, she was getting tired. Extremely tired, and cold. She felt as though the sweat was going to freeze to her skin, though at the same time her muscles were burning and starting to tremble.

To make things even better, Stanford was obviously physically stronger than her, and was wasting no time using that to his advantage. This had to finish quickly. She didn’t know how much longer she could last.

There was another train coming up behind them. It would pass by soon, and she could easily hop on. However she couldn’t leave the necklace.

“As much fun as this has been, I’m afraid I’ll be winning this one, Miss Marks,” Stanford said, grinning as he saw victory on the horizon. He seemed a lot more confident and talkative now than in the bar. She matched his grin as she realised why.

“Oh, I have another trick, Agent Pines,”

“And what would that be?” he said, humouring her.

Abruptly, Addi relinquished the tension on her end of the necklace and stepped inside his stance. She grabbed his tie and pulled him in for a passionate kiss, feeling him immediately freeze as though the wind had finally turned him into an agentsicle. He offered no resistance when she snatched the necklace back.

The other train roared by. Addi released Stanford, and would forever treasure his completely red, shocked face as she did so.

“Thanks for the gift!” She winked and saluted him with a couple of fingers as she hopped onto the other train, lurching as she adjusted to its higher speed. Stanford’s train slowed to a stop at a station, while hers hurtled onwards.

_That worked out well._

 

∆

The first thing Ford became aware of when the train stopped was an angry voice.

“WHAT THE HECK?!” shouted Stan. Ford stiffly turned his head and looked down at the platform. He was in no doubt that his brother had seen the whole thing.

_That did not go well._

 

 **Rendezvous point, outskirts of Bergamo (Italy)** ∆

“Did you get it?” asked Fiddleford as a severely wind-blown Addi opened his car door and sat down in the passenger seat.

Triumphantly, she brandished the necklace. “Just call me the master of seduction,”

“Sure.” Fiddleford rolled his eyes. “Master of seducin’ nerds.”

Addi shrugged, remaining happy with her victory. “I still don’t know who those guys were, though,”

Fiddleford’s phone rang. “Maybe the director can tell us that.” he suggested, putting it on speaker. “We’re here, Jheselbraum. Mission success.”

_“Congratulations agents,”_

“There was a problem though.” Addi informed her. “Two more people were after the necklace. I can give you a name and a description of one, but I never found out who they were working for.”

_“See what you can find, and I’ll check with the other agencies, find out if anyone missed the message that this one was Oracle Division’s,”_

“Will do, ma’am,” Fiddleford said.

_“Although, it seems as though your efforts tonight were not enough. Dr Hansen has already discreetly notified law enforcement that her research has been stolen. While that is not a problem on its own, somehow her primary benefactor has caught wind of this, gotten cold feet, and decided to start production of some other rather sensitive ideas of hers. Our superiors were rather counting on them being released at a later date – giving them time to get ahead of the game, so to speak. As it is, the stock market will take a severe dive, financial systems will be destabilised, banks-”_

“We get it, bad things,” nodded Addi.

_“Disastrous things, for our superiors, at least. So, you have a new mission: convince Dr Hansen’s primary benefactor to go back to their original release date. I anticipate that this will be difficult, so, while the first choice is obviously to make contact with the owners of the corporation, failing that there is also the board of directors,”_

“And they’ve got field agents doin’ this ‘cause the _actual_ lawyers are connected to our superiors, right?” Fiddleford sighed, not really needing an answer. Why get your own hands dirty when you have people employed for that?

“So what’s this company called?” asked Addi, looking just as frustrated.

_“Marks Incorporated,”_

Fiddleford did not need to see his partner to know that her face had drained of colour.

 

 **Arli Business & Wellness hotel, Bergamo (Italy)    **∆

“Seriously Ford. What the hell,”

Ford groaned as Stan started to chastise him for the umpteenth time. “I told you, it won’t happen again,”

Stan snorted. “Yeah, I bet that’s what you thought when she stole it from you in the bar. An entire plan, Ford! Wasted!”

“One, it’s a little rich for _you_ to be complaining, since this was _my_ plan and _my_ mission. Two, it hasn’t been wasted: we know there are other people after the shimmern material, and we have a name,”

Stan grumbled, but Ford was distracted by his phone ringing. Seeing who it was, he instantly excused himself to his room and answered.

_“Heya smart guy! Heard the mission didn’t go so well!”_

It was always hard to discern any emotion in Bill’s voice behind that layer of cheeriness. Ford might have thought Bill was angry, but then, he had been surprised in the past. He was a very understanding guy, and the most he did was point out where Ford had gone wrong, which was a rare occurrence anyway. Usually, he would simply instruct Ford in the best way to rectify the problem, or he would pass the assignment on to whoever was best suited to the task. Efficient and decisive, which Ford greatly approved of.

“There were complications.” Ford agreed. “A spy, Agent Marks, first name possibly Adeline, of an unknown organisation. She is in possession of the shimmern necklace.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, as though Bill was turning over the name in his head. _“Well, good thing that’s easy to fix! In fact, I’ve already got an opportunity for you. I’ll send you my ideas, and you can hurry along with them, doer to my thinker kind of thing.”_

Ford frowned, slightly unhappy with the analogy. He would prefer to come up with his own plan, but then again, seeing how easily his most recent one had been derailed, Bill was probably right to withdraw some of his trust. He had to do better.

Once Ford had given his acquiescence, Bill said, _“And don’t let yourself be distracted by any pretty girls. That’s all they are, IQ – distractions. Focus on your head, not . . . any other parts,”_

He was glad Bill wasn’t there to see his face go red. It had happened too many times that night.

 _“Like your heart or something equally useless,”_ Bill continued.

“Ah, yes. Will do. I’m sorry, I’ll do better next time,”

 _“Aw, don’t be so harsh on yourself Sixer! I don’t think it was_ all _your fault. I mean, where was your brother when you needed him, huh?”_

“Oh, no, Stan was providing a much-needed distraction. He’s doing very well, settling back into this kind of thing quickly. You don’t have to worry about him,”

_“Hmm. Well, now that’s sorted, I got someone else to deal with. Problems with the FBI, you know how it is. Oh, you haven’t heard anything about Oracle Division by any chance, have you?”_

“What’s Oracle Division?”

_“Oh, never you mind, just some government nuts who believe in that whole Cipher Conspiracy baloney. Welp, seeya!”_

The call disconnected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stan can charm anyone. I firmly believe he could charm a pigeon if he tried, and they barely even have brains. I also firmly believe that if anyone tried to flirt with a younger Ford, he would have absolutely no idea what to do and his brain would start to shut down with the sheer amount of "does not compute".
> 
> Sibling relationships! Sibling relationships between people who aren't siblings! Iloveitsomuch.
> 
> Spy trope no.8: travel  
> Spy trope no.9: agents with earpieces  
> Spy trope no.10: a fancy dress on a pretty girl  
> Spy trope no.11: pretty girl is an enemy  
> Spy trope no.12: breaking down a door  
> Spy trope no.13: hacking  
> Spy trope no.14: a watch gadget  
> Spy trope no.15: agents with tracking devices  
> Spy trope no.16: fight on top of a train  
> Spy trope no.17: the mission isn't actually over


	3. Three Plans Made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a range of emotions in this one.  
> I was intending to go straight to the action, but I wanted to give more attention to these bits, so here ya go!

**Darkwell, Oklahoma (USA)** ∆

“Still nothin’ on Stanford Pines. Apparently he just stopped existin’ after leaving the FBI five years ago for an unknown reason,” Fiddleford said.

Addi nodded distractedly, pacing their rented room in Unassuming Hotel. _Marks Incorporated_. She never thought she would have to deal with them again.

“Guess it’s up to the director now. Anywho, the earliest chance we have ta practise our negotiating and/or blackmailing skills on yer parents is at – oh goody, another party. Dancin’ and everything this time,”

She’d always hated their parties when she was growing up. From the moment she turned fifteen she was paraded around like some kind of show-dog. Unfortunately, the only things her mother had been interested in flaunting her for were the perks that came with a trophy marriage to a suitably wealthy and influential man. Countless faces, all much older than she had ever been, all with a much more appraising look in their eyes than was comfortable, sped through her mind. Adeline Marks, a commodity, Constance Marks’s very own bargaining chip, ready to be spent as the owner saw fit.

“It’s their anniversary, apparently, but I s’pose you’d already know that,”

Addi reflected sadly that the nicest thing she could say about her father was that he was distantly caring. While Constance was the social interface of Marks Incorporated, James handled the analytical side. Although, Marks Incorporated was one of the biggest tech companies in the United States. Even with delegating, he didn’t really have time for anything else. Oh, he’d tried. He’d unlock her room after she had an argument with her mother, or he’d try to make breakfast for her himself, et cetera. Those were the only reasons she still called him – however brief the conversations were.

“No invites, ‘parently we contact them to _ask_ if we can come. Well that’s more cuckoo than a clock factory. What a power-play,”

Packing her things and simply leaving when she was old enough was one of her proudest moments.

“Addi?”

“Huh?”

Fiddleford was looking at her in concern. Adeline realised she had stopped pacing and had been glaring ferociously at a wall, trying her best to bury the cold feelings of anxiety, insecurity, and even outright fear under hot layers of hurt and anger. The result was a muddled-up mess of emotions, overwhelming her even more.

Her friend stood up and gently led her to sit down on a bed, then sat beside her brought her into a one-armed hug.

“I’ll be right there with you the whole time, alright? And if ya need to leave, just say so. I can manage on my own if I haveta,”

“What, so I can miss out on all the fun?” she sniffled into his shoulder. He chuckled. “I’m fine, I am. It was just a bit . . . sudden,”

“A’know.” Fiddleford rubbed her arm comfortingly. “I think there’s something that’ll cheer y’up though.”

She took the bait. “Yeah?”

“There’ll be ballroom dancin’, and you know how ta wipe the floor with those uptight asses,”

Addi laughed.

Then she sighed. “I guess I should call my dad,”

 

 **Sacramento, California (USA)** ∆

Carla glared at her partner and was about to respond to this latest disaster with some suitably scathing remarks right in his smarmy English face, when her phone rang. She pulled it out of her pocket and stalked off to find the janitor’s closet, her unofficial cool-down room.

“Yes?” she said, breathing in through her nose and shutting the door behind her.

_“Senior Special Agent Carla McCorkle?”_

“That’s whose number you dialled,” she bit, the acrimony rising all too easily.

Whoever was on the other end was unfazed by her rudeness. _“I assume the Cipher Wheel investigation is not going as smoothly as you had hoped?”_

Carla froze. “Who is this?”

_“Are you in a secure location?”_

She looked around at various cleaning supplies and shelves. _Who would bug this place?_ “Yeah,”

_“Is your phone secure?”_

“It’s FBI issue,”

_“I know. Is your phone secure?”_

“Yes, very. I did some work on it myself,” Carla frowned.

_“I knew you were the right choice. My name is Jheselbraum,”_

“Do you have a last name? Or a first name?”

_“No,”_

“. . . continue,” said Carla after a moment.

_“We are both investigating the organisation known as the Cipher Wheel, albeit myself in a rather more secretive manner. The US government has presented me with the resources of an entire agency, known as Oracle Division, in order to do this. Neither of us have had any luck so far, so I want you to consider a proposal: inter-agency collaboration,”_

“How convenient,”

Was she really supposed to believe this? Right when she needed it, an offer of help supposedly from people whose sole purpose it was to handle this? What a happy miracle. No, there must have been a severe security breach, and someone had got their hands on classified material. Whoever this person was, they needed to be arrested and brought in for questioning. They could be a prank caller, or a foreign spy, or maybe even someone involved in the Cipher Wheel itself.

“Listen to me very carefully. You have committed a serious crime, stealing from the FBI, and you are looking at a _very_ long jail sentence. If you want _any_ hope of getting out of this, you will give me your real name, you will tell me where you are, and you _will not_ move. When you are brought in for questioning, you will cooperate. You will not do anything to further jeopardise your position. And you will tell me _everything_ you know about the Cipher Wheel,”

 _“I’m intending to, Agent McCorkle.”_ Carla could almost hear a smile on the other end of the phone. “ _I understand that this must seem very unlikely. You need proof of who I say I am. Something that shows you my status and my reach, as well as my lawful involvement in your affairs. Fortunately, I have just the thing. Have you heard of a material called shimmern?”_

“Of course I have,” said Carla, making a mental note to look up what the heck it was when she got back to her desk.

_“Sure. I’d advise you to look at Interpol’s recent case files for Italy, then, and know this: it isn’t over. You’ll be hearing from me soon,”_

Jheselbraum, or whoever it was, hung up.

Carla made her way to her office, sidestepping Agent Wexler as he nearly ran into her when his own office phone rang. She fumed as he surreptitiously closed the door behind him so she wouldn’t listen in. Like she even _wanted_ to. Her new partner was _not_ making it easy to like him.

There were no recent news articles or reports regarding Italy and shimmern, other than science journalists applauding how the presentation had lived up to their expectations. Whatever had happened was therefore being hidden, if Jheselbraum was to be believed.

She sent an email to a contact in Interpol, who responded in minutes with an attached document. It was a case file from yesterday. Apparently this amazing, valuable, extraordinary new material had been stolen. Go figure.

Carla didn’t really care much about the theft itself; she had far too much on her plate without worrying about Interpol’s problems too. What _did_ grab her attention and cause her stomach to bottom out was the realisation that this was classified information, and that there were two conclusions which could be drawn.

One was that the security breach Carla had originally suspected was far more serious than she’d imagined: it affected not only the FBI, but Interpol as well, and had to be dealt with ASAP. On the other hand . . . how likely was it that someone could have compromised two large law enforcement agencies without setting off any alarms at all?

The second option was that Jheselbraum was telling the truth. A miracle agency really had appeared out of nowhere to help her, like an angel complete with a sword of justice. Lord knows she needed one. Considering how sensitive and guarded both FBI and Interpol databases were, this option was much more likely than someone hacking in.

_Okay. I’m interested._

The next time Jheselbraum called, Carla would be ready to accept the offer. In the meantime, she’d keep all this to herself until she was positive it was for real.

Nodding as she made the decision, Carla’s eyes drifted once more across the screen, and came to rest on a description (from a someone known only as AM) of the perpetrator.

_American . . . Caucasian . . . brown hair/eyes . . . glasses . . . square jaw . . . approximately six feet tall . . ._

That was as far as Carla got before she was snatching up her phone and calling Stanley Pines.

_Stan, I swear to God, if you’ve gone back to being a criminal, I will hunt you down and arrest you myself. And this time I will NOT be cutting any deals or going on any dates with you!_

She would have wondered briefly why he’d been wearing glasses, but mostly what she was concerned with was why he was stealing scientific achievements.

 

 **Darkwell, Oklahoma (USA)** ∆

Stan stared at his brother across the table. Ford was concentrating hard on his computer, not paying any attention to the sandwich at his elbow. The diner they were in had just the right balance of not too many customers who could overhear their conversation, and not too little that the staff would pay special attention to them. While this was good, Stan had been hoping that they would at least have gotten a motel room to stay in since touching down at the airport. But no, Ford was insisting on sitting at this diner until he finished going through whatever plan his boss had sent him. Apparently, life as a spy wasn’t as glamorous as Stan had thought it was. Or maybe it was just Ford’s spy life that was like this. Maybe normal spies really did get hotel rooms, and beds to lie on, and time to sleep off the jetlag . . .

“Hey, Ford. You gonna tell me this plan any time soon? It’d better be _really_ good if you’re making me wait this long for it,”

“Hmm? Oh no, this isn’t the plan. I finalised that hours ago. I was just performing a search for Adeline Marks. I thought if we knew more about her then we would have a better chance of defeating her, but no luck. There’s no record of her after she left her parents’ home when she was eighteen,”

Stan groaned and thumped his head on the table. “I’ve just been _sitting_ here for no reason? Thanks a lot.” He swiped Ford’s sandwich and got even more miffed when his brother didn’t complain. “Sixer, you better give me something to hit soon, or _you’re_ up,”

“Hopefully you won’t be hitting anybody. B – I mean, my employer, has arranged an opportunity for us to take the shimmern necklace back. Using his considerable influence, he has convinced Marks Incorporated to release a few of Dr Hansen’s other inventions ahead of schedule, which, you can be assured, has ruffled the feathers of quite a few people in high-up places,”

“Has it,” said Stan dispassionately, looking tiredly into his empty coffee cup.

“It has. Hopefully, this will incite Agent Marks to attend her parents’ anniversary party tomorrow, on the orders from her superiors, and convince them to go back to the original schedule,”

“I’m gonna be totally honest here. The only reason I can think of why you’re bringing up her parents is so you can meet them, because for all you know, once you kiss someone you’re dating them,”

“Her parents own Marks Incorporated. Keep up Stanley,”

“No,” he said spitefully.

Ford continued on, steamrolling over Stan’s interruption. “We will also be going to the party, and that is where we’ll take back the necklace. Also, since we now know there are other people interested in taking it for themselves, we also need to reclaim the method for creating shimmern, if only to prevent _them_ from having it.” Ford turned his laptop around and showed Stan a photo of a small, empty vault room. “This is a vault James Marks had installed in his house. It is open for use by all guests to the party, and is where I am _certain_ we will find the necklace. Mr Marks keeps the key card on his person at all times, so there’s a pickpocketing job involved.”

“Nice,” said Stan, becoming more interested now that the details were emerging.

“Meanwhile, the method is going to be harder to obtain. That will most likely be stored either on a computer in the Marks’ mansion, if Agent Marks is staying there, or off-site completely, if she isn’t. My employer will notify us as soon as he finds out where Agent Marks is, but Darkwell is a big city. We might be _at_ the party when that happens,”

“You keep saying party.” Stan said, starting to grin. “Do you mean like an actual party? With dancing?”

Ford looked at the webpage announcing James and Constance Marks anniversary. “Ballroom dancing. I think the Marks are quite traditional,”

At Stan’s laugh, Ford asked, “You like dancing?”

“Eh, not as much as Carla, but it’s okay. I’m just remembering the last time we were at a dance together. Prom, wasn’t it?”

Ford grinned too. “Ma was so mad we ruined those suits,”

“The suits? Remember the photos!”

“That was _all_ your fault. The entire night was terrible,” Ford said, but with his smile still in place.

“Well, I had a great time. And how was it all _my_ fault? _You_ got punch thrown on you all by yourself,”

“Because of a pick-up line you suggested. If you’d just let me talk to a girl like a normal person-”

“Ford, normal for you is _so far_ from normal for everyone else. She might have called the police,”

“What – it wouldn’t have been – well – okay – shut up-” Ford spluttered before they were both overcome with laughing fits, remembering what they’d been like as teenagers.

“So, it’s settled,” Stan managed after a few moments. “I’ll go dancing, with a side of pickpocketing, and you can skulk at the edge of the room until you find a computer. Actually yeah, this is gonna be exactly like prom,”

They dissolved into hysterical giggles again, and a waitress gave them a strange look as she filled up their coffee. Stan didn’t care. This was feeling so much like home again it was starting to hurt.

 

 **Sacramento, Califoria (USA)** ∆

_“How’s it hangin’, Blind I?”_

“All according to plan. Agent McCorkle is gaining no leads whatsoever,”

_“Good, keep it up bud, if you know what’s good for you, ha ha. But really,”_

“Understood, sir,”

_“That’s why I like you, Ivan. Complete obedience, no pesky initiative or ambition, unlike another certain upstart I could mention. You do what you’re told, no questions asked, and even better, you don’t screw it up! Wish you had some sparks of brilliance in that greymatter of yours though. Then you’d be perfect,”_

“Do you want me to address the problem with Pines?”

_“No, no, stay where you are for now. I still need him to get me that shimmern and assemble the gun. I gotta admit, he does occasionally lay a golden egg, so to speak. I’ll see how he does on this one, and if it goes well, we’ll keep him around. The brother though, he needs to go. Gotta get our genius back on track! I’ll let you know if I need ya,”_

“Yes sir,”

_“Oh, and you know what happened with this conversation right?”_

“It is unseen,”

_“And unheard, I’ll bet. Catch ya later!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darkwell isn't a real place in Oklahoma. It's based off Blackwell. It was invented by hntrgurl13 as the place where Addi and her family lived. (Btw, I hope I'm doing okay with her parents in this AU).
> 
> Fidds' way of speaking is quickly becoming the bane of my existence. HOw do you SOUTHERN??
> 
> Spy trope no.18: emotional backstory  
> Spy trope no.19: mysterious phone call  
> Spy trope no.20: police description  
> Spy trope no.21: MAKING PLANS  
> Spy trope no.22: threatening phone call


	4. Fēnchéng sì fèn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um . . . Happy Valentines Day? It's a couple days late but you know. Have a thing!
> 
> I hope you have someone, be it friend, family, or romantic partner, who worries about your safety like Stan and Carla do for each other, who cheers you up like Addi and Ford do for each other, who tries to be there for you like Addi and Fidds try to be for each other, who lets you rely on them like Stan and Ford rely on each other, and who isn't afraid to kick some ass for you, like pretty much everyone in this is for each other.
> 
> I've decided to use missinspi's OC Madeline McGucket as Fiddleford's wife. She seems really fun!
> 
> To that one story anon: you know who you are, and this chapter was greatly inspired by you.

**Sacramento, California (USA)** ∆

The dial was picked up on the fourth ring, which was good, because Carla would have shouted at him even more otherwise.

_“Hey babe, what’s up?”_

“Stanley Pines, WHY are you wanted by Interpol?! Actually, scratch that, I _know_ why you’re wanted by Interpol. WHY did you steal that necklace?”

_“I’m wanted by Interpol?”_

“Don’t play innocent with me, sunshine, there’s a description that fits you exactly!”

_“Uh, well, okay, the thing is-”_

“Well, it fits you exactly except for the glasses, and-” Carla skimmed over the rest of the description – “six fingers?” Realisation dawned. “ _Ford_ stole the necklace?”

_“Yes! Yes he did! It was him! Kind of! I mean, he tried to-”_

She snapped back into righteous fury mode. “Dammit Stan, I know you’re with him! And don’t try to get out of this, you’ve practically already confessed! What the hell were you thinking? Why on Earth would you need that thing? You said you weren’t doing anything illegal! I can’t believe you, you – you absolute _idiot!_ ”

Carla heaved in a shaky breath and rested her forehead in her unoccupied hand. Her heart was hurting. Was that normal? Was she having a stroke? No, that wasn’t right.

She was scared.

When Stan spoke again, his voice was worried. _“Carla, are you okay?”_

“No, I’m not. I _need_ you to explain everything, because at the moment it looks like I’m going to have to turn you in. Just – just _please_ tell me you haven’t screwed this up,”

She hoped he understood what she meant, because her throat was closing up and she couldn’t explain further. It was going to hurt like hell though if he’d _known_ she wouldn’t take his side if he went back to a life of crime, and had decided he just didn’t care. She couldn’t say she hadn’t been afraid it would happen one day.

 _“No! No, uh, I haven’t, I can fix this. Just let me explain – or actually, hold on-”_ There was some muffled sounds as though Stan was hurrying somewhere, and a crash like something being knocked over. _“I’m gonna hand you over to Ford, okay?”_

There was an extended moment of silence, and some hissed words that sounded vaguely like threats, then Ford said, in a half-reluctant, half-nervous tone, _“Carla? It’s Ford,”_

“Hi,” She couldn’t believe this was the first time she’d talked to him in about ten years, and she couldn’t believe _these_ were the circumstances they were speaking under.

_“I understand that you want an explanation, but I’m sorry, this is not something I am at liberty to discuss. It’s extremely sensitive-”_

“Ford, I handle ‘extremely sensitive’ every day. Tell me what’s going on, or I’ll have to find out the hard way, and I can assure you, _none_ of us want that.” There was a beat, during which she could feel Ford’s resolve wavering. He was a smart guy, so he should know that she was fully capable of bringing this whole operation to a stop. But he should also be able to see she could be trusted with something like this. She could keep a secret if it wasn’t damning, and she’d dealt with many crises before. This one was just a little closer to home.

“This is probably going to sound like crap a hostage negotiator would spew, but I really do want to help. I don’t want anything to happen to Stan,”

 _“No, of course not . . . neither do I.”_ He sighed, the breath making a thumping sound through the speakers. _“Well, the first thing you need to know is that we didn’t steal the necklace. Granted, we meant to, but someone got to it before us. Furthermore, this was my operation, so if you turn us in, the blame should rest on me, not Stanley.”_ There was some defiance in his voice now. _“This wasn’t exactly . . ._ sanctioned _by the government, but it won’t hurt anyone, and it is not for some dark agenda. In fact, I fully intend to return the material once I’ve had a chance to study it. I’m sorry but I can’t tell you, or Stan, much more than that,”_

Carla thought it over. “Can you get me that whole ‘not for a dark agenda’ and ‘will return it’ part in writing? With some official name on it?”

 _“Yes he can! Can’t you, Poindexter?”_ Stan’s voice. She must have been put on speaker at some point. That, or Stan was pressing his ear as close to the phone as he could.

There was more muffled conversation and threats, then a resigned sigh. _“I’ll see what I can do,”_

“Thank you,” said Carla, feeling the beginnings of a headache ebb away.

Stan was speaking to her again. _“So, is that good enough for now? You’re not gonna, I don’t know, set the entire FBI on me?”_

She smiled. “No, you’re safe. For now,”

 _“Good, good. Hey Carla . . . I promise I’m not trying to, you know, leave or, or take you for granted or something,”_ he said awkwardly, with no little amount of distress.

“Neither am I.” she managed. Neither of them really seemed to know where to go from there. Carla was suddenly struck with the realisation that they didn’t have many conversations that got this serious.

 _“It really sucks that a description of one of us is pretty much a description of both of us, huh?”_ Stan said, in an obvious attempt to lighten the mood.

“A two-for-one deal for the cops,” she agreed, giving a slight huff of laughter.

_“Heh, yeah. I’ll see you soon, okay?”_

“Love you,”

_“Love you too,”_

 

 **Darkwell, Oklahoma (USA)** ∆

“Ya good?” Fiddleford asked Addi as the doorman for the Marks’ mansion led them away from the vault and into the function area. They hadn’t trusted their hotel’s safe, and had decided to bring the necklace with them until they got a chance to hand it over to Oracle Division’s R&D department back in New York. Meanwhile, the method was safely encased in Fiddleford’s hard drive.

He watched as Addi swiped a drink from a passing platter. “I’m good,” she said, downing it.

“Remember, just tell me if-”

“I will,” she said shortly.

“Alright. We’ll give it an hour, then try an’ find them. Hopefully they’ll’ve had a few drinks by then,” he decided.

“If we can get Dad by himself, that would be better. No matter what, Mom is going to be as sharp as a tack all night, and she’s _never_ willing to make compromises,”

“Noted,” He tried to look past the obvious bitterness in his friend’s voice. It didn’t work too well. Fiddleford really wished he was already retired on some farm somewhere where he didn’t have to deal with this goshdarn corporate crud or put Addi in emotional danger.

There were about a hundred and fifty people in the room. Most were milling around and talking – probably already plotting business strategies and striking deals. A few had wasted no time and made for the buffet tables at one end of the room. A space towards the back held several instruments for when the musicians arrived later on. A crystalline chandelier, and lights along the walls, cast a soft yellow glow on the scene.

“Ah’m goin’ to head to the buffet, do you want ta start minglin’?” he asked quickly, before Addi could reserve the position nearest the food.

“Ugh, fine. But only if we switch every so often,”

“Copy that,”

 

∆

Stan looked around the place. It exuded richness and wealth from every square inch. He wondered if he could get away with stealing some cutlery, because he was pretty sure it was real silver. Then again, maybe he shouldn’t. Carla had sounded really freaked out when she thought he was going back to law-breaking – which was kind of true – and she didn’t need any more stress.

He took a gulp of his drink to have something else to think about.

“Yeesh, even the wine is rich – oh,” he said, turning to Ford, who wasn’t actually Ford. His brother had wandered off, and instead there was a thin man in a dark green suit and glasses, who was in the middle of reaching for a pastry.

“Cryin’ shame,” said the man with only the barest hint of uncertainty, then went off further down the table.

“Have you tried the wine? You can practically taste the bourgeoisie,” Ford said, replacing him.

“You just stole my joke,” said Stan grumpily. Ford ignored him.

“Have you seen Agent Marks yet?”

“We’ve been here for two seconds, and the only person I’ve met is that bean over there who’s too busy finding food to be a super-spy.” Stan nodded to the green-suited man.

“Okay. We’ll split up and look around. Keep an eye out for Mr and Mrs Marks as well – we need that key card,”

“Got it,”

Ford went one way and Stan went the other. After pocketing a few spoons.

 

∆

The people seemed to be moving between gatherings aimlessly, but Ford knew that it was all a complex pattern which would end up making millions in the morning. Deals were being struck, negotiations were being undertaken, loopholes were being found and exploited. He dodged and weaved between the crowds as unobtrusively as he could. The last thing he wanted was for _this_ assignment to go wrong as well, and getting drawn into a conversation about economics and corporate law was a sure-fire way for that to happen.

“. . . no, that’s a ridiculous strategy, listen, it will go much better if we do it my way. Well fine, let’s get an outside opinion,”

Someone’s hand seized Ford’s elbow in an iron grip and dragged him (literally) into two men’s conversation.

“I was wondering if you could help us with something. We have two distinct financial views, and for this particular situation there is no way we can compromise. We were wondering-”

“ _You_ were wondering,”

“Fine, _I_ was wondering if you would care to break our tie? Oh, I apologise, what’s your name?”

Ford stared for a moment, caught in the spotlight. Evidently his name didn’t matter though, because the man continued on as though Ford had actually filled in the silence.

“Now, the Nowra-Shaw model of economics shows how inadvisable it is to place any kind of trust in a customer’s intelligence, so of course in our case that means we should employ an Austen technique, or ‘Fool’s Gold’ strategy as I believe it’s colloquially known, and – good golly man, did you know you have six fingers?”

Ford, who had helplessly been running a hand through his hair in an attempt to process the information being ceaselessly dumped on him with no context whatsoever, stopped, and quickly clenched it behind his back, his other joining it moments later. What was he supposed to reply? Of course he knew he had six fingers! How could he possibly _not_?

“Gerald, it’s not even nine o’clock and you’re already drunk, or close enough. Leave the man alone, he obviously has no idea about anything you’ve been saying. Sorry to have bothered you sir-”

“Well if _he’s_ useless then we still need someone to break our tie! Lovely lady, won’t you help us?”

 _Useless?_ thought Ford indignantly.

Gerald’s arm shot out again, and pulled Adeline Marks from thin air. Her stance was tense, and she wrenched her arm out of the man’s grip none too gently. Then her narrowed eyes landed on him, and her eyebrows shot up in surprise.

 _Oh. There she is,_ thought Ford. _We weren’t meant to meet._

 

∆

 _What the heck is_ he _doing here?_ thought Addi.

Of all the assignments she and Fiddleford could have chosen not to wear earpieces on, it shouldn’t have been this one. They’d figured they would be close to each other for the entire night, so they wouldn’t need them. Now, she had a probable threat to their mission on her hands, and no way to alert her partner.

The old guy who had pulled her into this was standing far too close, and kept chattering on about some financial decision. She couldn’t give two craps about it, and luckily was well practiced at pretending to look interested. Stanford Pines, on the other hand, actually _did_ seem interested – or determined to understand, at least. He was concentrating adamantly on what was being said, a look on his face like he was doing integral equations in his head. Apart from that first glance, he had avoided looking in her direction ever since, which most likely meant that their encounter had been as much a part of his plan as it had been of hers.

_He’s here for the necklace._

Several muted buzzes cut through the conversation and emerging music. Stanford pulled his phone out of his pocket, and checked the message.

 _That expression is_ definitely _relief. No wait, now it’s concern. Yep, he just looked at you._

A few seconds later, he coughed into his hand. It sounded suspiciously like _“Stan!”_

_Oh no, none of that. If I don’t get to communicate, neither do you. Let’s even the playing field._

 

∆

Stan manoeuvred around the room, looking for his brother. The musicians were starting up their first number and the centre of the room was quickly becoming a dance floor.

He spotted Ford, trapped in the grip of social obligation. Some guy was talking earnestly and expansively about a moneymaking idea, and Stan doubted he would have noticed if Ford abandoned the conversation and just walked away, or even talked freely into the mike, but for some reason his brother didn’t want to take that risk. That was fine, they had ways to get around that.

Stan stopped a few metres away, so that he was easily noticeable by Ford if he looked a little to his left. When he did, Stan lifted his eyebrows.

_What’s up?_

Ford twitched a hand slightly, drawing attention to his phone.

_Found the address._

Stan gestured towards the exit.

_So get going. You’ve got a computer to hack._

Ford nodded, almost imperceptibly, at someone else involved in the conversation.

_Can’t._

Stan moved around the group so he could better see what the problem was, and saw Adeline Marks. Did Ford know they were meant to stay _away_ from her?

His brother tilted his head a bit.

_You do it._

For some inexplicable reason, Stan was suddenly feeling as though the night wasn’t going to go smoothly after all.

He rolled his eyes.

_I need the address._

By Ford’s stiffness, Stan guessed he was thinking about how to put that particular message into signals. Fortunately, they were saved from having to perform a subtle game of charades.

 

∆

“Excuse me, they’re playing my song.” Adeline stepped across the circle before Ford could figure out his next move, and batted his phone out of his hand. Unnoticed, it went skidding across the floor, thankfully in exactly the right direction for it to knock against Stan’s shoe. His brother picked it up and immediately started heading for the door.

Adeline was still holding his hand. In fact, now she was pulling him towards the dance floor.

_Not good, not good._

“Oh, do you know each other?” asked Gerald’s friend.

“Never met him before in my life,” Adeline said, not missing a beat. Then, when they were far enough away, “I’ll take _that_ as well.” She neatly plucked out his earpiece and tossed it aside. It landed in someone’s drink.

 _Not that it matters, but . . . something’s off about her,_ thought Ford _._ Adeline looked significantly more drawn than she had in Italy, and had not once cracked a smile at him. Not that he expected it from her, of course, but he had thought she was the sort of person who exulted in fieldwork.

“Well that’s hardly fair,” he replied, and reached for her own device. However, there was nothing in, or on, her ear. Which therefore made him look as though he was being fairly overfamiliar with her.

“Oh,” Ford cleared his throat and hurriedly removed his hand, patting her on the shoulder instead.

Her lips twitched at that, and she said, “It’s supposed to go further down,”

“What?”

She placed his hand on her waist, took his other one in her own, and guided him out onto the dancefloor by his shoulder. “You know how to dance, right?”

“Yes, I do,” He didn’t mention that he’d been taught how to for a prom night almost ten years ago.

“Good. Then you have half the moves down,”

 

∆

_13 Ispyin St, room 007_

_\- B_

According to the text, the hotel where Agent Marks was staying wasn’t too far from the Marks’ residence. Stan found it easily.

“Doodedoodedooooo, just breaking and entering, nothing to see here,” Stan hummed as he approached the building. The street was pretty much deserted, so that was a good sign. Now he just had to remember how to do this.

_It’s like riding a bike, right? It’ll come back easily._

He found the window he wanted, and started climbing up the drainpipe. It was shaky, and slow going. He was pretty sure he almost died once or twice. He lost his earpiece. Still, he made it to the window, banging his knee as he climbed onto the sill.

 _Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, that’s high. That is HIGH. Much higher than it looked. What am I_ doing _up here?!_

Fingers trembling and sweat beading on his forehead, Stan managed to arrange himself so he was slightly, no, no, _far_ more securely, yeah, positioned. He reached in to his jacket pocket for something to help him, then remembered he thought he’d be stealing a key card tonight, not trying to open a locked window. Ford had all his tools.

_Come on, there must be something. AHAH! Wait, no . . ._

The spoons were not going to help him here. But then again, he didn’t have a lot of choice.

Stan jammed one of them into the tiny gap between the sill and the window, trying to wiggle it around. If he could just gain enough purchase to lever the window up, it would all be fine. He could get off this – this _perch_ , get some solid ground beneath him, and find that computer. There was still the matter of what to _do_ with the computer, but anyway.

The spoon flung off into the night, making a _pling!_ noise. It startled Stan so badly that one of his feet slipped from its hold, balance completely gone.

“Sh-”

In the split second he had before his untimely death, Stan desperately did the only thing he could think of. He put all the force he could into his remaining grounded leg, and thrust as far and as hard as he could away from the drop on one side. Stan launched the other way, hitting the window very painfully with his shoulder. It shattered, and he fell into the room, glass showering everywhere.

“-it!”

He just lay on the floor for a while, breathing hard, and trying to stop his life flashing before his eyes.

 

∆

Walking around the edge of the room, Fiddleford was not having a large amount of luck trying to locate Addi’s parents in the crowd. A beeping from his pocket distracted him.

He pulled out his phone and read the alert. It was from the hotel room. One of the sensors he had set up had been tripped.

_Far out._

How could the timing for this be so _incredibly_ bad? He was on a mission for gosh sakes! Was it just a random burglary? If so, the robber would be getting a nasty surprise. He couldn’t just sit back and hope that the security system worked, his laptop was in that room, and what it contained was possibly worth more than the entire hotel. Even worse, if this _wasn’t_ a burglary, but an intentional hit . . .

Fiddleford looked around for Addi. She was nowhere to be seen, and he didn’t have time to look for her. He had to go immediately. Even so, he paused. Was he really just going to leave Addi here, alone, to complete the assignment when it was clear she was in no state to do so by herself? Nevermind the mission, was _she_ going to be okay?

Time was ticking away. He gritted his teeth and hurried to the exit. He would only be gone for a little while. After he handled this, he would come straight back.

 

∆

It was clear Stanford had not danced for a while, but that was fine. Addi wasn’t exactly in the mood to let him lead anyway. Besides, she was only doing this because she needed to keep him in her sight and by her side. Then once the mission was over she and Fiddleford could arrest him and start their questions.

“I know you’re here to put a stop to the release of Dr Hansen’s other products,” said Stanford, “so whose orders are you working on, exactly? The CIA’s? The DOD’s?”

“I could ask you the same thing. Who wants the necklace so badly?” she countered.

“I do,” he answered simply.

“I have a hard time picturing you as the head of some secret agency. You’re more of a grunt, to be honest,” Addi prodded.

“A _grunt_?” It was difficult to say whether his voice or his expression conveyed his displeasure more.

Addi nodded innocently.

“I’ll have you know I am _perfectly_ capable of handling immense responsibility, and I do my own thinking. What I do is hardly _grunt work_ , Agent Marks,”

“Employee of the month. Got it.” Addi was unable to stop her grin from appearing. She’d really gotten to him. The obvious thing to do was taunt him further. “I’m sorry, you just don’t seem like someone who takes the initiative,”

He couldn’t seem to find a response that accurately conveyed his offense.

“Can’t imagine why,” she continued dryly, pulling him off a collision course with another dancing couple.

A now-familiar frown crossed Stanford’s face to show he was thinking of what to do next. _What’s it going to be?_ Addi wondered. _Is he going to start bragging about his achievements? That would be good, I could figure out who he works for. Or maybe he’ll go with childish insults. In that case, he better be ready for some right back at him._

Instead, he surprised her. Though in hindsight, she should have expected that he’d want to prove her wrong.

The music rose for a moment and without warning Stanford brought her in close and smoothly dipped her. It was a little out of sync with the rest of the dancers, but she was impressed none the less. She tried not to shiver as he adjusted his hold, and would definitely _not_ be telling Fiddleford about how miserably she failed. Or about any of this, actually.

“Thought I’d find that,” said Stanford quietly, and before she knew it there was a touch grazing her thigh, her weapon’s holster was empty, and her gun was in his hand. She thought she saw an elderly lady gasp and swoon nearby, but it was just because the slit on her dress had opened. It closed again once she was upright.

Stanford skilfully sent the weapon sliding unnoticed under a table, then took the lead in the dance again, a tinge of red on his face. Addi had to mentally reboot her brain to figure out what was going on.

“Getting some revenge for the way our last meeting went?” she asked into the silence. She was willing to bet she was slightly flushed as well.

“Yes, and also disproving your assumptions about my competence,” He sounded very dignified for someone who’d just had their hand up her dress a few seconds ago.

“You’re a fast learner, my pupil.” she said mockingly, threading her hands through his lapels. “Let’s see just how fast,”

Addi darted a hand inside Stanford’s jacket, and sure enough, she found his own firearm. It also went spinning across the room, under the same table. The pace was set from there.

He found the knife between her shoulder blades. She raised an eyebrow at the lockpicks in his trousers. Stanford almost forgot to look where he was leading her, and a plate of delicacies nearly experienced a premature death. Addi managed to save it, laughing all the way. She even made _him_ laugh, by swearing colourfully when she drew a garotte wire from out of his sleeve.

“You were going _use_ that on me?” she said in disbelief.

“Well, I didn’t bring any weapons to our last fight, so I thought I should be prepared,”

“Not cool, Stanford,”

He plucked a needle-sharp pin from her hair. The golden locks tumbled over her shoulders and down to her elbows. “You’re not exactly defenceless, Adeline,”

Under a table, the pile of weapons grew. Tonight had turned out to be much more fun than she’d expected.

 

∆

Eventually, the jelly-like feeling in Stan’s body faded. He got to his knees, looking around the darkened room. The computer was sitting on a tabletop nearby. Feeling worn out and fed up with this mission, he didn’t realise that it might not be the best idea to pick up a spy’s computer without checking for booby traps.

A red sensor winked at him from where he’d lifted up the laptop. Stan stared back as time slowed down.

The was a series of light clicks and clacks behind him, coming from above where the window was. In the dim reflection off the fridge door, Stan could see a metal plate folding into the unmistakeable shape of a gun. _Who the hell made that?_

Footsteps were hurrying along the hallway outside. His knees were already buckling and his head was ducking down to his shoulders. He furled up and hit the floor just as the gun finished cocking and fired. The door burst open at the same time.

_Phut!_

 

∆

Ford was pretty sure neither of them had any weapons left. He ought to be frustrated, or at the very least concerned, but Adeline had not made a single aggressive move towards him since knocking his phone away. He was not keen to make any attempt at reading the spy – considering how thoroughly she had caught him off guard at several points during their first meeting – but he _thought_ she might actually be genuinely enjoying this.

Wrong again. Her eyes flicked over his shoulder and the amusement died from them. Her steps faltered, slowing them to a halt. Suddenly she was again as strained as at the beginning of the night, if not more.

Addi whipped her head her head around, searching for something or someone in the crowds. When she didn’t find them, she breathed, “Dammit,”

“Everything okay?” Ford asked automatically, then mentally smacked himself for worrying about someone who was technically his enemy. He winced as she apparently unconsciously dug her fingers into his shoulder.

“Fine,” she said shortly. Was her breathing supposed to be irregular? Was she tired from dancing? He doubted it; they had fought on top of a moving train for twenty minutes and she had still been strong towards the end.

“There’s drinks over there, you should go get some, or all, of them. And _stay_ there.” Adeline nodded jerkily to a table.

“Five minutes ago you were determined not to let me out of your sight,” Ford pointed out. She didn’t seem to hear him. She was looking over his shoulder again.

“Nononono . . .” he thought she said. He was getting alarmed now.

“Wait!” She grabbed his lapels again to stop him from turning around. “Look the other way! At that nice conversation those people are having! You should go over there and join them! Really! Do you know any jokes?”

“You can’t trust atoms,”

Adeline stared. _Why did I say that why did I say that. Too late now._

“Because . . . they make up everything,”

_Well, you ruined it._

Not for Adeline, though. She gave an immensely unladylike snort, and laughed.

_She’s perf-_

“How demeaning,” said a snide voice behind him. Ford turned, and Adeline’s humour died. Mr and Mrs Marks had arrived.

 

∆

Once he was sure the crazy transformer pistol wasn’t going to fire again, Stan raised his head above the table. He saw a man lying prone on the floor, light from the hallway falling across him.

Swearing, Stan turned him onto his back, and noticed two things. One, he was the green suited man from the party, and two, he was breathing. The gun had shot a tranquiliser dart, missed Stan, and hit this guy. Pretty lucky, all in all.

Now to figure out the computer. Carla and Ford did this stuff all the time, how hard could it be?

He opened it up.

_Password required._

Great. No, it was okay. He could do this. The computer belonged to the guy on the floor, right? Easy enough.

Stan rooted through the guy’s pockets until he found a wallet. _Personal things, personal things._ There was a photo inside, of two dark-haired people who were presumably his wife and kid. Not helpful. He didn’t know either of their names. He was about to discard it and try something else, when the hall light shone through the back of the photo and illuminated some writing.

_Madeline & Tate, Christmas_

Worth a shot.

He entered the wife’s name, and bingo!

“I’m in. Wait, who am I talking to?”

There was, thankfully, a charger cable that was compatible with Ford’s phone in one of the bedrooms, so he used it to connect both devices. Then he found a folder full of downloaded files, and right at the top was _Shimmern Method, Dr Hansen._

“Hah! This hacking thing is easy! No wonder Ford wanted to do this!” Stan said victoriously.

He made to transfer the file to Ford’s phone. A box asking him to confirm the action with a password appeared.

“M-A-D-E-L-I-N-E,” he muttered as he typed. The box vanished. Another replaced it.

_Incorrect password. You have two minutes to enter the correct password or this device will self-destruct._

“OH, COME ON!”

 

∆

“The first time I see my daughter in seven years and she’s the handsiest person in the room,” said Constance scathingly. “Really. Have a little decorum when you dance,”

Addi flushed, and Stanford quickly let go of her waist and stepped respectfully away. She felt exposed, and that made her angry. Her cheeks heated even more, which made her further embarrassed, which made her even more furious, and it continued until she seemed to be in a loop of uncomfortable, hot, emotions. She still hadn’t made a reply.

“Who’s this?” said Constance, clearly done waiting for a response. _Good one, Addi._

“We work together,” She hated how muted she sounded.

“I’ll bet you do, from the way you two were acting,”

“Dear-” tried James.

Addi fired up at once. “Oh, now you care because it’s not _your_ choice anymore?” she snapped.

“You’re my daughter, it’s my duty to keep you within suitable circles, in places you _belong_ , in places that are _best_ for you,” Constance shot back.

“ _I_ can decide what’s best for me!”

“I think I should-” Stanford said, attempting to move away.

“Stay!” all three Marks’ ordered. He did. Constance was frying him with her gaze, and even James was frowning a bit at him. Addi was just desperate not to be alone.

Constance sighed and pinched her nose for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was more controlled.

“What are you doing these days, anyway? You’ve never mentioned it to your father,”

_Okay, this is your chance, you need to bring the conversation back to business, you need to tell them your cover story, you need to gain their sympathy, you need to convince them to stop their products’ launch._

That was a lot of things she needed to do. Her mind was completely blank. _Addi you idiot! You call yourself a spy? Jheselbraum would fire you on the spot for this!_

“I, um, work in marketing,” Addi said, a scrap of information tantalising her. Fidds had been going through this all day with her, why couldn’t she remember it?

“Well done! I could never stand that side of things, myself,” said James lightly.

“Uh, right,”

“Isn’t it commendable, dear?” her father continued to Constance. “No experience, no help, just her own talent to get her there,”

_That would probably be nicer to hear if it were true._

“Commendable, certainly. However, you are a Marks. It is the least that’s expected of you. Who did you say you worked for? Not some shabby little business, I hope?”

Addi’s mind was full of static again. The name Fiddleford had made up was on the tip of her tongue, she swore it was, but no matter how hard she tried it wouldn’t come. Where was her friend? Why wasn’t he here? She shouldn’t need him, but she did, she really did, she needed help-

“Pines Distributors,” Stanford said unexpectedly. “We’re both employed there,”

“Really? Pines Distributors?” A shadow of approval crossed Constance’s face.

“Yes. Adeline is head of marketing there. My father signed her contract himself,”

“Your father?” inquired James.

“Filbrick Pines, the founder. I’m Stanford. Pleased to meet you,” He shook hands with her parents, and Addi was left feeling weightless.

“ _You’re_ Stanford? I thought Filbrick said you rejected his offer after high school. Didn’t you and your brother make some ridic – I mean, some unusual choices?” said Constance sceptically.

“I would say there was a lot of . . . unusualness from everyone involved, not only my brother and I.” Stanford said. “Anyway, we’re back now. Adeline here works with buyers from Pines Distributors all over the world, and my father is always saying how impressed he is with her,”

“High praise indeed, from Filbrick.” Constance reassessed her daughter, who was trying to pull herself together.

“Thank you, ma’am. Mom,” she managed.

“I do have to admit, you are in far better standing than I expected. I assume you’re here on behalf of Pines Distributors?”

“Yes.” Addi straightened up, thinking fast and clearly again. “I received word that you are planning to release some game-changing inventions, soon? This could severely disrupt our revenue stream, and I was hoping we could negotiate a compromise,”

Her parents glanced at each other. Addi held her breath. Then Constance nodded.

“We’re willing to hear you out. We’ll finish greeting our guests, and then we can talk more.” They walked away, James bumping into Stanford. Addi almost missed the way her unplanned ally’s hand slipped into the other man’s pocket. Before she knew it, Stanford was speeding away towards the vault, and the necklace.

 

∆

_30 seconds._

“Carla!” Stan called into the phone.

_“Okay, I have it! Call up a text box, type in ‘countermeasure shutdown’, key in the computer password-”_

“Are you sure? Last time I did that the thing tried to kill me,”

_“I’m sure! Now type in ‘security override’, hit enter, and use the security code ‘103211’.”_

Stan braced for disaster and did as she said. The pulsing red box with the countdown disappeared, and the file started transferring. He let out a sigh of relief, and finally suppressed the urge to jump out the window.

_“You alive?”_

“Yeah, thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I really owe you one,”

 _“One? One?! That’s the second heart attack you’ve given me in two days!”_ Carla said furiously. _“And now you’ve actually made me help you do something illegal!”_

“I know, but I’m not sorry because it was that or be blown up,” Stan said defensively.

_“You owe me big time, Stan Pines,”_

He considered. “. . . how’s dinner sound?”

_“I want a weekend with you as well,”_

“Deal,”

The file finished transferring, and Stan carefully stepped over the unconscious agent’s body. He hoped things were going better for Ford.

 

∆

Addi hurried after Stanford as best she could, but she lost him within moments. The crowd was thick, and she needed to look collected if she wanted to stay in her parents’ good books.

“Ah, lovely lady, we never got to finish our tiebreaker!”

It was that man, Gerald, considerably drunker than he had been before. Quite an achievement.

She tried to push past. “Excuse me sir, I need to talk to my friend,”

He took hold of her arm. “I thought you said you’d never met before? Besides, I will be far more riveting than anything that young man might do for you. Now, the Lewis mode of thinking about finance-”

“Maybe another time,” She twisted her arm and forced him to release her. He grabbed her other one.

“Young people today, always rushing around with those uncontrollable hormones. My dear, you should learn to take pleasure in the _older_ aspects of life,”

“Let me go, _now_ ,” Adeline said, with a voice and a look that made him back off as though scalded. She was about to forge past when –

“Let me know if the rest of him’s as freaky as those hands,”

Addi thought she’d been angry before. That was nothing compared to the white-hot alloy of wrath and outrage which coursed through her now.

Her fist slammed squarely into his face. It wasn’t neat, and it hurt a lot. But she wasn’t as sore as Gerald’s broken nose. There was a sick kind of relish in the crack and subsequent blood flow, but then she just felt sick. _What the hell had she done?_

The sensory overload mixed with alcohol was too much for Gerald. He keeled over, and behind him was Stanford Pines, wearing a strange expression, hand unnecessarily outstretched as though to intervene. His other was halfway through stuffing something in his pocket. She knew he’d heard everything, and she wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

Addi swallowed, noticing that the whole room was quickly going silent.

A sharp call of “Adeline Marks!” pierced the deadness. Her parents. She whipped around to see them, and when she thought to look back, Stanford and the necklace were gone.

 

∆

“Fidds. Fidds, wake up. Are you okay?”

Fiddleford groaned and pulled himself off the floor, wincing at the bright light. “M’alright. Security measures got me. Moses, I wish I was retired,”

“The shimmern method’s gone,” Addi said dully.

“Thought that might be the case.” As she helped him to the couch he noticed something.

“Ya look like heck, Addi,”

She didn’t respond, and suddenly all his memories came flooding back. “Oh gosh. Addi I am so sorry, I shouldn’t’ve left ya there.” He didn’t want to ask; the answer was written all over her face. “How’d it go?”

She looked him right in the eyes. “Badly,”

Then she was sobbing into his shirt, and he was soothing her as best he could while wishing he could go down to that mansion and give Mr and Mrs Marks several pieces of his mind – specifically those pieces with the knowledge of how to properly treat your children.

“It’s – it’s not – I mean, it was bad, but not – not as bad as it could have been. Rea – really. This is mostly relief!”

He handed her some tissues.

“Jheselbraum’s not going to be happy,” said Addi after a while.

“Ah, she’ll be fine. You know the director, she’s not even goin’ ta be irritated. And if those superiors of hers’re unhappy, I’ll bet she’ll take our side,”

Addi grunted.

“Ya win some, ya lose some,” Fiddleford reassured her. “And no one can blame ya for losin’ this one,”

“We haven’t lost this one,”

“That’s the spirit!”

“No, I mean it’s not over.” Addi straightened up and wiped her nose. “We can still convince the board of directors,”

Fiddleford started to grin. “Look at that! No one can say you’re not an agent of Oracle Division, through and through! What’s our next move?”

Addi stood. “China,”

A couple sodden tissues fell off her onto Fiddleford.

“Urrgh,”

“Sorry,”

 

∆

Ford got back inside Stan’s car. His brother had reluctantly let him borrow it so that he could drop off the necklace alone. It was past midnight, and Ford was waiting on the other side of the street for someone to pick up the package he had left under a garbage bin, as per instructions.

What a night. He didn’t know why he had gone to step in when Gerald had been behaving like that. Obviously, it was a virtuous thing to do, but Adeline could handle herself, and he ought to have been focused on protecting the necklace.

He was also unsure what to think about the way Adeline had, without hesitation, knocked the man’s lights out after he’d insulted Ford. He’d heard much worse in his life; however, Agent Marks was now among only two people who had ever come to Ford’s defence. Not as consistent a record as Stan, but the strike had been equally as fervent. Usually, he would therefore consider her a friend. He should avoid that, though. Cipher Wheel operatives worked alone – for safety reasons – and that included cooperation with other agencies. Bill was already uneasy enough about Stan . . .

His phone rang.

_“Good job, Agent Unstoppable! I got that method you sent meeee!”_

“I’m glad it was a success. Although, the method was all Stan. He was truly ingenious on this,”

_“Right, right,”_

“Bill, I was wondering if I could ask a favour,”

_“Shoot, Sixer! You know I’m here for you!”_

“There’s an agent at the FBI who knows about the Italy incident. Her name is Carla McCorkle, and she found our description on Interpol’s wanted list. She’s Stan’s girlfriend-”

 _“His_ girlfriend _, huh?”_

“Yes, however she also requires an explanation. Not the whole truth, but I was hoping you could arrange some sort of formal letter to assure her that we are not doing anything that warrants arresting. I can vouch for her discretion,”

Bill was quiet for a while.

_“No,”_

It was as though the temperature had dropped several degrees.

“Why?” asked Ford bluntly.

Everything went back to normal.

_“How about instead I just take down that Interpol file, huh? Easy, problem solved, no more reason to arrest you,”_

“Sure, but wouldn’t it be easier to-”

_“Sixer, Sixer, SIXER. You know the rules. The Cipher Wheel operates independently. No partners, no sweethearts, no brothers, no high-school friends. After all, how else am I gonna keep all my agents safe?”_

It was stupid of him to question Bill. The man was the leader of the organisation, and Ford’s closest friend. He had no reason to question him.

_Would he have had my back like Stan, or Adeline?_

_“Anyway, you have a new assignment. You gotta pick up some machinery so we can actually assemble this idea of yours. Head for China. You’re not done with Marks Incorporated yet,”_

Ford murmured a quiet assent and hung up, trying to banish the uncomfortable thoughts he was having. He started the car and drove off as an FBI van pulled up next to the drop mark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought it would be really funny if Stan called Fiddleford a bean.
> 
> *swerves around all the "gun in your pocket" jokes*
> 
> I firmly believe that if you tell Ford he's no good at something, he will come back to you with a vengeance and an attempt to fully understand the thing.
> 
> Ford and Stan communicating without words was one of my favourite things to ever write.
> 
> Spy trope no.23: Interpol  
> Spy trope no.24: Dancing!  
> Spy trope no.25: balancing tricks up high  
> Spy trope no.26: booby traps  
> Spy trope no.27: slow motion  
> Spy trope no.28: high-tech gun  
> Spy trope no.29: tranquiliser  
> Spy trope no.30: disappearing into thin air  
> Spy trope no.31: making a drop


	5. Pyat' raz Ocharovaniye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one! I think we're getting to the halfway point now. I swear I don't mean to make the chapters so long, it just happens.
> 
> Uni has started up, so I'm not going to have as much time to write anymore. Nooooo! I'll still keep doing this when I can though. I promise, I write at least three sentences every day.
> 
> If you don't know what EMP stands for, it's electromagnetic pulse. That'll be useful in this chapter.

**Sacramento, California (USA)** ∆

Icy rain dripped down Carla’s back, causing her to shiver even more than she already was. Today was a cold, cold, day. Since Stan had taken the car when he left for Oregon, she was left to make do with public transport, and she had to say, she couldn’t wait for her boyfriend to get back. Walking to the train station on a winter morning was not something she would have done by choice.

“Agent McCorkle?”

Carla looked up from the rivulets tracing their way around her boots, her umbrella momentarily threatening to fly away. A tall, dark woman was walking towards her. Carla did not envy her shaven head – her own was covered in hair and yet it still had goose bumps.

The woman’s voice sounded familiar. “That’s me,” Carla replied with a hint of caution.

“You wanted me to tell you everything I know about the Cipher Wheel,”

“Jheselbraum,” she realised.

Jheselbraum motioned to an undercover alcove provided by a closed coffee shop. Stepping into the shelter, Carla said, “I didn’t expect a face-to-face meeting,”

“There’s no way to say this without sounding creepy, but I wanted to catch you completely by yourself,”

“You’re right, that is creepy. Explain, please,”

Jheselbraum glanced around, making sure they really were really alone, and then said, “The FBI field office has a leak. Someone is feeding information on your investigation to the Cipher Wheel,”

There were several things that Carla could have answered with, but none of them seemed adequate. Sure, her paranoia had been spiking ever since she took the lead on the Cipher Wheel case, but being _right?_ That was a whole other deal. She hadn’t thought there actually _were_ spies watching her every move, but now it turned out she was wrong on two counts.

“You see why I wanted to talk with you alone?” Jheselbraum said into the silence. “Your case is being monitored, and by extension, so are you. Only within the workplace, I expect.” she added as Carla’s mouth opened in alarm. “You haven’t become enough of a problem for constant surveillance. However, this mole is also slowing down the investigation, and so I urge you to keep your collaboration with Oracle Division to yourself.”

“You still want me involved?” asked Carla, surprised.

“Against the Cipher Wheel, our best chance is to stand together.” Jheselbraum raised her umbrella and stepped back out into the rain. “I will send an agent to you shortly who can provide you with the information we have collected. Until then,” Jheselbraum nodded her farewell and smiled, then walked off. She soon disappeared into the deluge.

 

 **Marks Incorporated building, Beijing (China)** ∆

Stan had to say, he was not impressed with Beijing. Smog clogged the city and it was not uncommon to see people in breathing masks walking the streets. Although, he supposed the cover on really bad days could be useful for committing crimes, which, to be honest, was probably what was going to end up happening.

Oh wait.

It was happening right now.

He _really_ hoped this wasn’t going to get on Carla’s radar.

At the moment Stan was being led to a meeting of most of the board members for Marks Incorporated, using his (slightly tarnished) silver tongue to pose once again as Stetson Pinefield, a representative from the owners of the company themselves. Stan wasn’t sure what he was going to talk to the board about, but it was going to be _good_ and would completely captivate them. When he thought of something, that is.

The breaking and entering was occurring at another location. Ford was at the actual manufacturing facility, and it was Stan’s job to provide a distraction which would stop the board members from realising what was up when – if, _if_ – something went wrong.

On the subject of Ford, Stan was getting worried about his brother. He hadn’t opened up an inch since Stan had first talked to him in Oregon, which was unexpected to say the least. He had thought Ford would loosen up eventually, but no luck, even after two weeks straight together. His questions about what the shimmern was for were shut down. His prying about who they were working for was diverted. “Primarily research-based” his ass, nothing was this secretive unless it was dangerous. And if Ford was involved then Stan would stop at nothing until he found out exactly what was going on.

“In here, sir,” said the aide, directing him through the conference room door.

 _Crap_. Maybe he should have been thinking about a cover story rather than Ford.

The board members stopped talking and turned as one to stare at him when he entered the room. He could feel their gazes nailing him to the wall. Stage fright started to freeze him up, even though weaving lies and charming the uncharmable was what he was born to do. It was as though he was in second grade giving a class presentation all over again. It would be so easy for the mild confusion on their faces to change to accusation. All he had to do was mess up, say the wrong thing, use the wrong lingo, and they’d be on him like piranhas.

 _Maybe there_ is _something to this ‘planning ahead’ thing Ford’s so keen on._

“Uh, hi, I’m, er, Sta – Stetson Pinefield, I’m a representative from James and Constance Marks, and I’ll be sitting in on this meeting-type deal.” More stares. Stan started to sweat.

The door opened again.

“Howdy there, ladies and gentlemen, ah’m Fergus MacIntyre, and I’ll be representin’ James and Constance Marks in this meetin’ today,”

It was the bean man. The bean man from Oklahoma – who was actually a spy. What the hell? How was this even _possible?_ Stan was sure he’d left no trace, nothing to identify himself by, or be tracked with, so what was this guy doing coming after him?

The man in question didn’t give any acknowledgement of Stan. He simply waited coolly for the board members to respond.

“You are . . . _both_ . . . here representing Mr and Mrs Marks?” queried someone hesitantly.

 _Now_ the spy looked at Stan. It was barely for a second, but Stan saw all he needed to: the man was taken aback and very worried at that comment. He was here for some other reason, and he thought Stan was the actual representative.

Everyone was caught off guard for some reason or other, but Stan was back in his territory.

“Yes, good catch, we _are_ both straight from the bosses ‘emselves. You _were_ expecting this, weren’t you? I mean, there’s two bosses, so there’s gotta be two reps! Of course, that would be obvious to you, wouldn’t it? Mr and Mrs Marks wouldn’t employ a bunch of idiots to run their business!”

There was a hurried clearing of throats, shuffling of seats, and murmuring of agreements. One person gestured politely to the table, and Stan and the spy took their seats. The spy was stealing glances at him from the corner of his eye, but other than that he was inexpressive.

“So, what did Mr and Mrs Marks wish to discuss with us?”

Stan blanked again. Why hadn’t he thought this through?

“We’re here to negotiate the reestablishment of the original release date of all of Dr Hansen’s products,” said the spy _._ He then sent Stan another side-eye, as though preparing for a contrary exclamation.

_Jeez, why is he in the field? He’s about as subtle as a bull in a china shop._

“Yep,” Stan affirmed.

 

 **Marks Incorporated manufacturing facility, Beijing (China)** ∆

Ford crept around the side of a long, low, brick building. He was walking parallel to the manufacturing facility’s security fence, after finding and subsequently rejecting several entry points. It was very well guarded tonight. Or maybe this was average for Marks Incorporated.

Passing into an alley between two buildings, he could barely see five feet ahead. The spotlights were not able to shine any light here. Ford pulled the night vision goggles out of his bag. These were much lighter than the military version, and looked more like skydiving goggles than anything else. Plus, they were much more effective; one of Ford’s own inventions.

Looking through them was like looking into a shady alley on a reasonably bright day. Full colour, everything thrown into sharp relief. This was the only reason Ford saw his attacker coming.

He sidestepped as a shadow on the wall lunged at him. The figure regained their balance quickly, spinning around to face him, sophisticated night vision goggles covering their own eyes, blonde hair tied out of the way –

“You!”

“ _You_!”

Agent Marks gaped at him, and Ford had to admit that he was astonished as well.

“How did you find me?” he asked.

“Why are you here?” she said at the same time.

“Oh,”

“Oh,”

Neither of them had been expecting to see the other here, apparently. They were on their own independent missions, which both just happened to be at this location. Looking at Adeline’s face, it seemed she was just as lost as him.

Well, first step was to notify his partner.

“Stan, come in,”

“Fidds, something’s happened,” Adeline was a millisecond behind him, and they both straightened up and gave each other interrogatory glares, trying to give the impression that they were the agent in control of the situation. Which was pointless, because _he_ was the one in charge, and he should know it!

Stan finished making his excuses to the bathroom. _“What is it?”_

“Agent Marks is here,”

 _“Ford, this is getting ridiculous! How have you run into her on_ three _separate missions now? I swear, either you’ve rigged up some kind of Adeline-magnet or you’re intentionally tracking her!”_ Stan burst out.

“How would I even-? No, never mind. It wasn’t intentional!”

 _“Whatever, Ford. Next time,_ I’ll _do the field work and you can be holed up in some room by yourself. That way we might be able to avoid any more close encounters,”_

“‘Close encounters’ is usually used to refer to aliens. Although, you do bring up a good point. This has been a very weird set of incidents in recent days. Perhaps if _weirdness_ itself was a measurable activity, and it existed in a state of flux, pulling in certain things, or people-”

_“You’re not fated to be together, Ford,”_

“I never said-!”

 _“Just keep going as best you can. I’ve got my own situation: that other spy from Oklahoma’s here. He must be Marks’ partner, and he thinks_ I’m _the actual representative,”_

Ford got his mind back to the mission. “Keep it that way for as long as you can,”

_“Yeah, like I’m gonna tell him ‘Hey! I’m an intruder too! Let’s be buddies!’ I gotta get back,”_

“Copy,” said Ford.

Adeline had finished her conversation as well. “Okay, Agent Pines, listen up.” She said authoritatively. “I’ve had clashes before. The best thing to do is stay out of each other’s way, otherwise it’s going to end up as one big mess.”

Her eyes widened, as if she’d just remembered an important fact. “Like in Oklahoma! _Give me back that necklace_!” She dived at him, propelling him back against one wall and rooting through his pockets and bag.

“Adeline! Hey! Stop it!” She did not. “Why would I have it with me?!” He said, before she attempted a cavity search.

Adeline narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but stopped all the same. “Fine,”

“Alright then. Let’s get to it,” Ford said decisively, carefully edging out from the gap between her and the building and heading for the last possible entry point.

Adeline followed.

“What now?” he asked, ready to fend off another attack.

She raised an eyebrow. “To our missions? I need to get into the facility and plant an EMP, and I assume you need to steal something and ruin someone else’s day,”

Ford ignored the jab. He had other things to focus on.

This entry point was not as secure as the others, but it was still flooded with spotlights and watched by private security enforcers. A high chicken wire fence, topped with barbed wire, enclosed this section, but unlike the rest of the compound, it was not electrified. This must be a frequently-used loading yard.

He would not be able to get past _this_ point either. At least, not alone.

“Should we work tog-?”

“Yes,” Adeline answered resignedly, with a glum look at the fortifications.

 

 **Marks Incorporated building, Beijing (China)** ∆

Stan sat down in his chair, and the supposed Fergus MacIntyre did the same, coming in from another bathroom to unobtrusively rejoin the discussion. There was a screen on the wall displaying a graph which Stan tried to look interested in.

“. . . indicates that yes, we are rich . . .”

The meeting so far seemed to be a general overview of the company’s profits and losses. Nothing he needed to pay attention to. All he had to do was sit back and make sure these people were kept occupied until Ford was finished.

 _Well, this is boring._ _Might as well do something useful._

The spy was sitting right next to him, and as far as Stan knew, his brother hadn’t managed to figure out who he or Marks were working for. _Then again, he might’ve and just not told me_ , he amended sourly.

“Whaddya think?” he asked quietly, nudging the man.

MacIntyre was staring at the screen slightly open-mouthed. Then he massaged his temple with two fingers.

“This is . . . unconscionably skewed data,” he said in disbelief. “Where’re their analysts? Why’re they employin’ them?”

Stan shrugged. “Business is business, I guess. But that graph looks like things are going well, so what’s the problem?”

“The _problem_ is those results just _can’t_ be right. I might not know a lot about corporations, but a loss of zero percent in the past decade? I don’t believe that,”

“How can you not know a lot about corporations?” Toyed Stan, holding back a grin.

That seemed to bring MacIntyre back to reality. Stan could see the words _“You’re a spy, act like it,”_ float across his brain.

 “I – ah – I’m new in this here field. Mainly worked with computers before.” He coughed, and got back on track. “But if these darn moneywranglers are makin’ this much dinero, it ain’t through legal means. They must be underpayin’ the workers or bribin’ their allies, or somethin’,”

“Seems pretty smart to me.” Shrugged Stan. “More for yourself if you underpay your workers.”

“’Course ya think that.” Scoffed MacIntyre. “Why wouldn’t you? Yer on top. You don’t need ta think about helpin’ up people who’ve fallen in a hole and can’t get out. But that don’t mean you should shovel more dirt on top o’ them. That’s just cruelty.”

“So, what, your weapon of choice is the metaphor?”

“I just think people should help each other is all,” the spy said tightly, turning back to the presentation.

Stan couldn’t believe how easy it had been for the guy’s composure to slip. He was clearly used to wearing his heart on his sleeve, so Stan pegged him for someone who didn’t usually do this kind of thing. He’d mentioned computers, so a hacker? Probably. He was smart, that was for sure. Ford would like him. To be honest, Stan might have too, if not for that snub about not doing enough to help people. Hell, he’d _been_ in that hole the guy was talking about – until Carla pulled him out (mostly). No one could say he didn’t understand what it was like to be in that position. Who was this guy to say that? He was _trying_ to help, he _was_ doing enough for Ford. He _was_.

 

 **Marks Incorporated manufacturing facility, Beijing (China)** ∆

Addi dropped to the ground on the other side of the fence. Stanford joined her a moment later. It would only be seconds before the few guards noticed them in this glaring light, and to be honest, it was a miracle they hadn’t been spotted already.

Stanford made a reassuring gesture, then drew a gun with a triangular barrel. He aimed at an area across the compound, to the other side of the listless guards, and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

“Nevermind, I can-” Addi started.

Then a truck exploded. She could feel the heat from thirty metres away, the flames were so intense some burnt themselves into invisibility, and the sound was so impressive it didn’t just deafen her, it slammed into her chest like an extra heartbeat. The spotlights blew out from the shockwave, shattered glass and melted metal flying everywhere.

“What is that thing?!” Her yell went unnoticed in the guards’ panic.

“Laser gun!”

“Cool!”

Stanford beamed and started running for the vacated entrance. “Thank you! Everyone else I’ve shown it to just complains that they can’t see the laser!”

“Well, you’ve got to be stealthy, right?” said Addi, darting through the door he held open for her as a second explosion rocked the facility. There must have been a chain reaction. “This is espionage. We need subtlety in our line of work.” More flames painted glowing sunsets on the wall before the door closed. Guards screamed for emergency services.

“I’m glad someone understands,”

 

 **Marks Incorporated building, Beijing (China)** ∆

The talks kept droning on. MacIntyre hadn’t even managed to say his part on release dates or something. Stan stayed out of it all for the most part, occasionally volunteering an opinion or agreement to show he was paying attention (which he wasn’t). The spy sat in stony silence, probably trying not to give himself away any more than he already had. He was damn lucky Stan was a spy too.

Through a wall of glass windows, he saw the light for the elevator blink on and watched it with mild curiosity. The doors opened to reveal a very harried aide who looked more like they’d run up the stairs rather than taken the elevator. That wasn’t good. Coupled with the loud crackle in his ear a minute ago (which had sounded suspiciously like an explosion) that he had heard despite the fact that his earpiece was switched to the lowest volume setting possible, then it was probably because of Ford.

Time for a distraction.

The aide passed out of Stan’s view and a moment later there was a frantic knock at the conference room door before it burst open. “I am so sorry to interrupt but there’s been-”

Stan stood up and interrupted him. “Ladies and gentlemen, I think now would be a _great_ time to talk about bankruptcy,”

The entire room went silent, all eyes fixed on him. The aide went stock-still, then quietly closed the door and left, pretending nothing had happened. Stan congratulated himself.

“Bankruptcy?” said someone in a small voice.

“Shut your mouth! The B-word is not appropriate language for an office environment!” snapped someone else. Then they addressed Stan. “What’s this about bankruptcy?”

“How come _you_ get to say it?”

“It’s for your own good, sweet innocent pastry,”

“Aww,”

“Also, I’m older, so I’m the boss of you,”

“No fair! I’ll tell human resources on you!”

“Human resources are older than you too!”

“Bankruptcy is what this board is leading us into!” Stan said loudly over the emerging din. _Jeez,_ these _are the people in charge? They’re complete babies._ “And it’s all because you’re making an irreversible mistake by launching those products early, as my good colleague will now explain.” He stared pointedly at MacIntyre.

“Ah! Right, yes.” The spy stood up as Stan sat down. “Ya can’t release Dr Hansen’s inventions.” He said, addressing the executives seriously and professionally. “Not until the original launch date. _That_ time was decided on because it was safe to do so, an’ for the life of me I can’t imagine why you changed it!” MacIntyre lifted his arms in slight exasperation. “These products are so valuable that the stock market will be put way outa wack, not to mention more’n a few banks will close up shop. Marks Incorporated will make some big bucks for sure fer a while, yes, but in the long run we won’t be much better off. Bankruptcy’ll definitely be an optio-”

“He means it’ll definitely happen!” Stan hurriedly stepped in. “One hundred percent certain of it.”

“We’re going to need to see some research before we commit to anything,” said someone at the head of a table.

“You didn’t before you committed to _this._ Anyway, the word of James and Constance Marks, the _owners_ of this company, should be enough for you. What are you, some kind of CEO?” Sniped Stan.

“Actually, yes,”

“Well even better! Because have we got some data for you! Right, Fergus?”

MacIntyre gave him a strange look. “Yes, er, Stetson, o’course I do,”

“Oh, good,” Stan sighed in relief and settled back into his chair. He’d been worried for a minute there, but he should have expected someone like MacIntyre, or whatever his real name was, would prepare well for this.

A whole bunch of papers came out and were spread across the table. That should be enough to keep them occupied for a while. At least, until the next off-site disaster.

 

 **Marks Incorporated manufacturing facility, Beijing (China)** ∆

They found themselves on the ground floor of the main production warehouse. Addi had never seen a place so big. Conveyor belts stretched into the distance, and a few machines efficiently worked away at screwing pieces of metal together, flattening out sheets, and scanning devices, all the while monitored by screens displaying the interiors of whatever was on the line. No people were in sight, as it was late at night, and Addi (and no doubt Stanford too) had already ensured that the security cameras were playing on a fifteen-minute loop.

There was still the problem of what to do with Pines. Usually, she would stay as far away as possible and hope their missions didn’t clash. But then again, their missions had already clashed several times, and she still didn’t know who he worked for.

She glanced at Stanford out of the corner of her eye. He was glancing right back at her.

They drew their guns at the same time.

“I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this,” said Stanford ruefully.

“Really? I’ve been looking forward to it.” Countered Addi sweetly. “All you’ve done is make things difficult for me, and I’d really like to repay that favour.”

“Believe me, you have. With interest,”

“Who’s the one with the necklace, Pines? Stop complaining.” She said sharply. “Especially when you consider the way you got a hold of it.”

All she could say was that she hadn’t _meant_ to make things personal.

He cocked an eyebrow and Addi had a feeling that she’d just completely submerged herself in this can of worms. “You mean, when I helped you establish a cover story for no reason other than to help you complete _your_ mission, and then proceeded with my own assignment, which you were perfectly able to prevent, but didn’t?”

That stung, as though an elastic band had been snapped across her wrist. “I was not in _any_ position to stop you and you know it!” She seethed. “I was completely off my game because of that – that whole _mess_ with my – you know! Don’t act all innocent like you _weren’t_ exploiting it! I know you could tell I was tense; you wouldn’t go five minutes without giving me some concerned puppy-eyes! But you _still_ thought it was okay to use my situation to your advantage so I wouldn’t be expecting it when you went for the necklace,”

“Adeline, you know in our line of work the mission comes first and sympathy last. Would you _not_ have done the same thing?” He was sure he was right about this, that was obvious, but was there also a tinge of regret in his voice? She might be imagining it.

To be honest, Addi wasn’t sure what she would have done in his position. She knew the demands of her work, but she’d like to think she also had some compassion left.

“I would have at least considered . . . not . . . maybe doing it,” Addi said reluctantly. She frowned and looked away. This was ridiculous and she knew it. She would accomplish nothing by castigating him now, and while she _was_ angry at him, it would be more accurate to say she was angry at the whole situation. She felt . . . betrayed? Was that the right word? By her parents’ expectations, by the sudden aid Stanford had given and then so unceremoniously taken away, by Fiddleford’s absence when it really mattered (not that it was his fault), and by her own self-confidence. Yeah. Betrayed.

After a quiet moment, Stanford said slightly shamefacedly, “I, um, I did. Consider it, I mean. I realise that doesn’t mean a lot now, because I went ahead with it anyway, but . . . if that’s the least you could have hoped for then it’s far less than what I should have done. I know what it’s like to be a disappoint to your parents . . . and vice versa.” He cleared his throat, like the next couple of words were a struggle. “I’m sorry.”

Their guns were almost lowered all the way anyway, but Addi made the truce official by holstering hers. “Thank you,” she said steadily.

There was an unsure moment.

“I think this is against orders.” Stanford ventured, but made no move to redraw his weapon. “We’re still technically enemies, even if we’re not on opposing sides of a mission.”

Addi volunteered a grin. “I won’t tell anyone if you won’t,”

Stanford seemed to seriously consider the legal implications of this for a minute, which made her wonder about who he worked for that would police something so sternly he even had to analyse his friends. She knew Jheselbraum for one was happy to let her keep private moments to herself if they did not overly influence a mission. These were kind of vague parameters, so Addi took some liberties.

Eventually she decided to break the tension by giving him a warm hug.

“Oh. Um,” said Stanford, carefully hugging her back. She didn’t think he was used to this.

“Okay, let’s do this.” Said Addi. “I need to arm an EMP in here in case my partner can’t convince the board to stop the manufacture of Dr Hansen’s other inventions. That should put this place out of action until I can figure out something more permanent. What do you have to do?”

“I need a some of these machines.” Stanford gestured around the warehouse.

“You mean those big assembly line machines?” Addi asked doubtfully.

“They’re collapsible.” Stanford assured her. “I should be able to fit the two I need in here.” He unslung the bag he was carrying from his shoulder and showed her.

“Have you accounted for the mass? They’re not going to be any lighter just because they’re smaller,”

Stanford faltered, then shook his head. “It should be fine,” he said confidently.

“Tell me if you need help,” Addi said, walking off to the centre of the building.

“You too,”

Addi set up the electromagnetic pulse safely under a workbench. No one would find it accidentally, and she could activate it remotely at any time, shutting off all power in the building indefinitely. If Fiddleford did manage to convince the board, then there would be no need for it, and she could permanently deactivate it. Although, Jheselbraum’s superiors would most likely tell her to leave it online.

There was a banging and grating sound, where it looked like Stanford was trying to dismantle a large pair of tongs.

“What are those things?”

“They’re – _oof_ – used to shape – _dammit_ – materials before they solidify.” He huffed, succeeding in folding it up and shoving it into his bag. “Just one more and then I’m done.” He searched eagerly around, finding the one he was after quickly. “Ahah! This is for the intricate insertion of miniscule parts which are too small for people to work with directly.”

This machine was considerably smaller, and looked like it had been awarded a position of honour with its solitary space on a metal table.

“Sounds like you’re building quite a contraption,” Addi prompted. Stanford pretended not to hear her, and proceeded with unscrewing some of its delicate arm lengths so they folded over, making a neat box.

“You’re into all this science-y stuff then?” she asked, leaning against a belt while he worked.

“Very much so.” He responded emphatically, with a smile. “To tell you the truth, I’d rather spend my time researching than doing this sort of thing. I always meant to, but I guess things just . . . worked out differently. I’ll go back to it one day, and it’s not like I’m unable to do any now.”

“Wow, a regular little genius, aren’t you?” Addi teased gently.

“Yes,” he answered matter-of-factly. Addi snorted.

“What about you? Are you interested in all this ‘science-y stuff’, as you put it?” Stanford asked.

“A little. I dabbled.” She said playfully. “When Jheselbraum offered me a job I accepted.”

_CRAP._

Stanford looked up at the name, but didn’t inquire further. _Oh thank God. He doesn’t know about her._

“Alright! All done,” he said proudly, and lifted the machine off its place and into his very full bag.

“Did you check for alarms?” Addi said suddenly, snapping back into mission-mode. She shouldn’t have been snapped _out_ in the first place.

“No need to worry, these things aren’t guarded as closely as you might think,” Stanford said airily.

_BEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAA!_

“Nice,” grumbled Addi as alarms and red lights blared.

“Don’t worry, I can fix this!”

The entrance they had come through burst open again. The (now smoking and sooty) security guards ran in, spotted them, and charged.

“Fix it faster!” Addi said, drawing her gun again.

“Over there! I have an idea!”

Addi followed him without question, and they stopped at a maintenance station beside what looked like a streamlined forklift.

“Hop in!” Ford leapt into the driver’s seat and started the engine. “Don’t worry-”

“Stop telling me not to worry!”

The forklift careened off, heading for an exit. Addi drew her gun and aimed at the pursuing security guards. Warning shots made them scatter, but they regrouped near a cleaning cart and piled on, the vehicle’s dusters whirring as they gave chase.

 

 **Marks Incorporated building, Beijing (China)** ∆

“Well, we can’t argue with that,” said one of the executives, and the others nodded in agreement. One by one they signed the form Fiddleford handed to them, signalling the end of the negotiation. He had done it. Marks Incorporated was back on track.

Now he just had to sit through the rest of the meeting without dancing around in joy. He thought that would be fairly easy once the board went back to discussing tax policies.

Unnoticed, Fiddleford unmuted the volume on his earpiece. He did not like what he heard.

_“Go faster!”_

_“We’re already at maximum speed!”_

_“Then we need to figure something out, because they’re gaining!”_

Addi was in trouble. He tried desperately to think of an excuse which allow him to leave without appearing suspicious, or jeopardising the contract he’d written up. It had to be good, something like –

“MY WIFE’S GONE INTO LABOUR!” Pinefield screamed, and sprinted out the door.

That’d work.

“Er . . . MINE TOO!” Fiddleford yelled, and ran after him.

He ignored the elevator, which would most likely be full of people, and headed straight for the stairs. Banging open the door, he saw Pinefield had had the same idea and was already a floor below. Thankfully, they were only on the fifth floor, so there wasn’t much distance to cover until he reached ground-level, and then it was a simple matter of getting back to the car –

He swore. The taxi. He’d taken a taxi to get here.

He ran out the lobby doors, hoping to see a taxi nearby. No luck. What else could he do? Addi might be fighting for her life right now!

There was a helicopter pad at the rear of the building. He raced for it. It wasn’t long before he realised he was running alongside someone.

Was Pinefield heading for the helicopter too?

“Stan Pines, CIA – maybe,” the man said, stopping suddenly and turning to him. “Short version is we’re both spies and our partners are in trouble. Wanna share the helicopter?”

That . . . actually made a lot of sense. He’d thought the guy didn’t really seem like a corporate representative. “Fiddleford McGucket, classified. Do ya know how to fly one of these?”

“No clue.” Said Stan. “You?”

Fiddleford looked at the machine. He knew how it worked, in theory. He peered through a window at the controls.

“Fiddleford?”

“Get in, agent,”

Once he was strapped into the pilot’s seat he took stock of the gauges and dials in front of him. They seemed simple enough. He’d designed and built far more complicated things while drunk.

“That should be the start . . .” he muttered.

The rotors began to spin.

“Wait, you have flown one of these before, right?”

Fiddleford flicked a few more switches and donned a headset.

“Fiddleford?”

He handed another headset to Stan, who was looking pale, and clutched it tightly.

“Talk to me, McGucket, have you done this before or not?!”

“No,” grinned Fiddleford, staring out the windshield in excitement, “but how hard can it be?”

“You know what, I’ve changed my mind. Ford can die. I did not sign up for this. Let me out, McGucket. Let me out now. No! NONONONO!”

The helicopter lifted off the ground, wind whipping around the platform, Fiddleford’s dream of flight taking root in his mind. He laughed maniacally. Stan yelled.

 

 **Marks Incorporated manufacturing facility, Beijing (China)** ∆

The forklift and the cleaner were both severely dented, not to mention overturned. The forklift’s arms were moving up and down – or, well, side to side – on their own, scraping against the hallway floor. Adeline’s parent’s security did _not_ mess around when it came to intruders. Ford was not sure whether they were trying to capture or kill them. Hopefully capture.

A gun went off next to one of his ears, deafening it. The other was ringing badly. A shout left him, but he could only feel it. He pushed the shock and pain aside and snatched the gun away, chopping down on the man’s arm and sending an elbow into his face. He turned and shot another guard who was sneaking up behind him in the leg, then turned back to the first, and kicked him out cold just as he bent double from the previous strike.

Adeline had moved further up ahead, and was facing off against her own two adversaries. Ford regained some of his hearing as he ran over. Before he arrived, she managed to incapacitate one, however she was barely a second too slow to stop the other from drawing a stun gun and pressing it to her side.

She gasped sharply, freezing up completely as the electric shock went through her. Fortunately, the guard was too distracted to notice Ford. A swift strike to the head sent her to the floor. Adeline’s knees buckled, and he caught her under her arms, sparing a moment to check on her. She was shuddering, and had broken out in a sweat, and looked like she was going to throw up. The adrenaline in her system might have exacerbated the electricity’s effects.

“That sucked . . .” she breathed.

“Can you walk?”

“Urrgh . . . give it a second,”

The last guard to be dispatched groaned, letting Ford know she was conscious. They needed to leave.

“Your second’s up!” He pulled Adeline’s arm around his shoulders and hurried away, quickly finding another hall. As that set of doors banged closed, he heard footsteps, slow at first, but gaining speed. He hurried faster, Adeline trying her best to find her feet.

Through an office, down a small hallway, hope there’s no security cameras, _in here!_

They stumbled into another warehouse, this one substantially smaller and darker. The lights were off, but Ford could dimly make out rows and rows of shelves, all bearing boxes.

“Storage room,” grunted Adeline.

They rounded a corner just as the guard followed them inside. Evidently this wasn’t as good a hiding place as he’d thought.

Adeline tugged him towards a tiny, narrow recess, almost completely pitch black. They scurried into it, Ford repressing the urge to ask if Adeline could stop breathing so laboriously.

He half- propped her up against a shelf and half- kept a hold of her, so that they were facing each other. If he looked to his left, he could see the entrance to their nook, and the dim light beyond it.

The footsteps neared. The guard was just around the corner. She was coming up the aisle. All too soon she was one shelf away. What little light Ford and Adeline could see by was blocked out as the guard slowly eclipsed their hideaway, silhouette menacing their eyes, gun drawn, stepping carefully. Adeline stopped breathing altogether. Ford readied himself either to push her to the back of the niche or launch himself at the guard.

They were plunged into absolute darkness as the entrance was completely covered. After a few agonising seconds of listening into the strained silence and trying not to make any noise whatsoever, the dim light began to leak back in. The guard was passing by. She had not seen them. Her footsteps receded into the distance, and she evidently decided to give up, because they heard the door close again a minute later.

There was a huge gasp as Adeline took her first full breath in a while. Ford sighed as well.

“That was close,” he said quietly.

“No kidding.” She replied, and huffed out a laugh. “ _‘I can fix this!’_ You dork.”

She smiled again, inciting him to give one in return, and – yes, they were _really_ close. He would have backed away but there were boxes pressing into him from every direction except forward. Adeline was still smiling. Everything seemed really quiet. Was that normal? It was better than noise, he supposed. Her arm was still slung partially around his shoulders, and she did not seem inclined to remove it. She was _so_ close and she looked so beautiful, even in the half-light, and he felt like smiling forever and God he wanted to kiss her - kill her! Kill her! Because . . . she was an enemy . . . right? Except he didn’t think that label applied anymore.

“You two okay?”

Adeline shrieked, and Ford instinctively shot forwards to heroically shield her from the guard who had come back to finish the job – or that was his intention. During the process he elbowed her in the gut and winded her.

“Jeez, it’s only me,” Stan said in mild offence.

“Addi! Yer alive!” cheered the man with him.

“Uh huh. Unless you give me another heart attack,” coughed Adeline weakly. Ford hurriedly extricated himself from the cranny, trying stop his own heart from pounding its way out of his chest.

“Er . . . Stanford?” asked Adeline worriedly, following him out only to be met with a subtly different-looking Stan.

“Stanley, actually. Ford’s my brother. And _you_ must be Agent Marks.” Stan grinned. “Nice kicking my bro’s ass in Italy. Very original.”

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” Adeline grinned right back, winking at Ford. He was positive he went so red his face was luminous.

“You’re _brothers_?” said Adeline’s partner in disbelief, also examining them. “And yer both called Stan?”

“Don’t you try to be funny about names, _Fidds_ ,” Stan said irritably, but Ford was good at recognising the signs, and knew his brother was not genuinely annoyed. 

“Fair point. Fiddleford McGucket.” The other man introduced himself. “Adeline’s told me about you, Stanford.”

“Call me Ford,” Ford requested without quite knowing why. He figured Adeline at least had earned the right.

“Then you can call me Addi,” Adeline told him. There was no mistake there. She was definitely looking at him, specifically asking him to call her that. Did people usually feel warm inside when talking about nicknames? He smiled back at her.

“Well, we should go. Nice finally meeting you when you’re not, y’know, unconscious or on the other side of a room. It’s kind of weird that this is the first time we’ve introduced ourselves, when you think about it. Anyway, see you around, I guess.” Stan waved and turned to go.

“Where are we going?” inquired Ford.

“To get a cab. NOT any helicopters or other aviation vehicles.” For some reason he looked pointedly at Fiddleford, who rolled his eyes.

The goodbye seemed rather abrupt to Ford, but then again, what was he hoping to stay for?

Adeline waved, and he tried to breathe evenly.

 

∆

Addi dropped her hand, which appeared to have leapt up on its own. She still felt a bit jittery, and she didn’t think it was from the electroshock.

“I doubt we’ll be seeing ‘em again,” said Fiddleford as they walked to their own exit point.

“Well I doubt _that_.” said Addi mischievously. “We still don’t know who they work for, and _I_ want to find out.” She showed him the watch on her wrist. A blue dot pulsed on a map of the building they were in, slowly moving away.

Fiddleford looked up. “You put a tracker on him,”

“Oh yes. I’m looking forward to seeing those two again,”

Maybe Stanford a little bit more.

Okay, a lot more.

 

 **Beijing Ya Mei International Hotel, Beijing (China)** ∆

Ford came back from the bathroom to see Stan still sitting in front of the television, watching a show neither of them understood, without the subtitles on. At this point they were just killing time until someone came by pick up Ford’s machines.

On the table, his phone rang. Before he could stop him, Stan answered it.

“Ford’s phone,”

Ford raced around the table to gesture frantically at his brother to give it to him. Stan went through a whole range of expressions in under a minute, starting with vague disinterest. Next was surprised comprehension.

“Ford’s boss? Yeah, I mean, he’s been so secretive about you.”

The sudden suspicion that overtook Stan’s face was jarring. “Er, thanks. Ford’s right here if you want to talk to him.” He handed the phone over.

 _“Sixer!”_ Greeted Bill.

“Sorry about that, I was out of the room for a moment,” explained Ford.

 _“No harm done. At least, none that can’t be_ rectified _. Anyway, as you’ve probably guessed, the last part of your mission is at hand! Then we can finally get to work on making that gun. You mentioned how we needed a filament material for the bulb?”_

“Yes. You’ve found something suitable?”

_“Indeed I have. It was not easy, lemme tell you, but I’ve gotten in contact with someone ready to make a deal,”_

“That’s great! I can’t believe we’re almost there, this design seems to have been in the making for an eternity!”

_“You read my mind, buddy,”_

“So where do I have to go? Who do I need to meet?”

_“You ever heard of the Russian Mafia?”_

 

∆

Stan thought that Ford’s boss seemed strange, to say the least. The guy had barely said two sentences to him, and already he was getting strong Stay Away vibes. The fact that Ford trusted him did not bode well, either. Stan knew a conman’s wheedle when he heard it.

Ford quietly hung up the phone. His face was twisted into extreme concern, as if he had an exam the next day that he wasn’t confident about. In short, Stan hadn’t seen that look before.

“Hey, don’t worry.” Stan nudged him, trying to sound casual. “We’ll face it together, huh?”

Ford sighed. “I’m not sure how long you’re going to keep saying that for,”

Stan didn’t really like to show people he had, y’know, _feelings_ that often, but his next words slipped out on autopilot.

“However long ya need,”

Jeez, he was getting soft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy, that helicopter was easy to steal, wasn't it? Also, "streamlined forklift" is an oxymoron.
> 
> Addi's issues from the last chapter felt unresolved, so I included a bit of that in this chapter. Plus, the way Ford got the necklace was a bit of a low blow, so I addressed that as well. Ford admitting his failings is not something that comes easy to him, but I think that he does want to be better for the people he cares about.
> 
> Corporate power in the hands of children. Hitting any sore points for anyone else?
> 
> I think Stan and Fiddleford would get on reasonably well, but they might grate occasionally.
> 
> Spy trope no. 32: rainy meeting  
> Spy trope no. 33: being spied on  
> Spy trope no. 34: infiltrating a meeting  
> Spy trope no. 35: breaking in to a compound  
> Spy trope no. 36: rich people being rich  
> Spy trope no. 37: explosion  
> Spy trope no. 38: car chase (sort of)  
> Spy trope no. 39: helicopter  
> Spy trope no. 40: becoming one with the shadows  
> Spy trope no. 41: planting a tracker


	6. Six Chambers, One Bullet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think of this as the end of phase 1. A few things are revealed in this chapter that hopefully clear up some small mysteries.

**Sacramento, California (USA)** ∆

The room was silent except for the rustle of paper and the tap of computers. Concentration was absolute. It was infectious, causing the people passing by outside to lower their voices and tread quietly as they passed.

So, when Carla’s partner closed the file he was working on with a loud slam, she was incensed. It was becoming her default state of being around the man.

“This is leading nowhere,” Wexler announced.

“I _was_ on the verge of something,” Carla muttered, kneading her forehead and trying to reclaim her scattered train of thought.

“You’ve been saying that for weeks, now,”

“ _I know_ ,”

“Wouldn’t it be more advisable at this point to simply let the case go cold? No one would blame you. I suppose there’s enough to convince the SAC of the Cipher Wheel’s existence, if you must, but other than that-”

“But that’s just it! Proving that the Cipher Wheel exists is not enough. It’s not the existence of the agency itself, it’s the threat behind it that’s important! We need to prove that the Cipher _Conspiracy_ is real,” Carla explained.

“What’s the difference?” asked Wexler, stretching lazily.

“The difference is that no one cares if there’s some tiny agency floating around. The FBI has hundreds of cases like that, and for the most part there’s nothing interesting about them. The Cipher Wheel is different because of the genuine threat it poses.” Wexler remained indifferent, but Carla kept going regardless.

“It’s rumoured that the Cipher Wheel is not involved with any government, yet it still has massive influence throughout ours and many others. This influence is used to cause anarchy wherever possible, for no discernible reason. I think Cipher himself just finds it fun. Wexler, if what is being said is true, Bill Cipher could literally be on the verge of world domination!”

“That’s the Cipher Conspiracy, is it?” said Wexler, unimpressed. “It’s a bit far-fetched, don’t you think?”

“It’s _real_ ,” Carla said, with a conviction she hadn’t felt since she started. Jheselbraum’s involvement had persuaded her of that. None of Wexler’s snide little comments were going to take that away.

 

 **In-flight over Asia** ∆

“So, why won’t you tell me anything about your boss?” asked Stan. He was not happy to be back in the air (Fiddleford’s flying had made sure of that), so he was distracting himself by interrogating his brother.

“You might get the wrong idea,” answered Ford, frowning at the book he was reading.

“What, he a terrorist or something?” said Stan, half-joking.

“No, but some people are under that impression.” Ford sighed, reluctantly giving more information when Stan made a “continue” gesture. “There’s this . . . conspiracy, of sorts, floating around. Completely false, of course. I should know, I work for the man.”

“Conspiracy, huh? Yep, sounds right up your alley,”

“I just told you it wasn’t true,”

“Hmm, yeah that is a change of mind from when we were kids,” Stan said, nodding seriously.

“Shut up. Anyway, there’s no need to panic. After this you won’t be involved any more, and hopefully you won’t be troubled by any conspiracies, right or wrong,”

Stan’s worry came after him faster than a speeding ticket.

“What do you mean ‘after this I won’t be involved anymore’?”

Ford blinked at him. That habit he had of forgetting to mention important stuff was pretty annoying sometimes.

“This is the last part of the mission. I thought you’d be glad to be going back home, to be honest,”

“. . . yeah. Yeah, I am,”

He’d be much happier if Ford wasn’t most likely going to disappear on him again, though. How was he supposed to keep his brother safe if he wasn’t around? Sure, Ford kept insisting that everything was fine, but the thing was, the more he did that, the more Stan didn’t believe him. Especially after that short conversation with Ford’s boss recently.

Possibly what was making everything worse was that he and Ford had to meet with the freaking Russian mafia, and who knew how that was gonna go. Stan would have bet everything on “not well”.

At least Ford was acting like this was the kind of thing he didn’t do regularly. Still, if Stan really had to let go so soon, he was at least going to make damn sure his brother wasn’t in serious trouble. The best way to go about that was finding out what Ford was building.

 

 **Gravity Falls, Oregon (USA)** ∆

_Bmm bmm. Bmm bmm._

_Click._

“Sixer, it’s me! Change of plans,”

_“Oh, uh, of course. How do you want me to proceed?”_

“Your brother should have that meeting handled. It’s so simple even he couldn’t mess it up,”

_“What-?!”_

“Meanwhile, I want _you_ to get to work finishing up those plans. The blueprints, remember? It _is_ kinda necessary for them to be completed before we start construction,”

_“Yes, but, are you sure – no, I mean – Stan? Meeting the Mafia? By himself?”_

“Oh, come on, buddy, you’ve been showering him with praises since before you brought him on board! Don’t tell me he’s incapable all of a sudden,”

_“No, no, he’s not, far from it, it’s just-”_

“Fordsy, don’t worry. He’ll be fine! What do you think I’m gonna do, order a hit on him?”

_“No. No, of course not,”_

“Good. Besides, a bit of alone time would suit you. Just you and your brain, no distractions around, making me that gun - the world will know you as a hero, Stanford! And it’s more efficient this way. Thought it would have been something you approved of, to be honest,”

_“. . . it is. Yes. You’re right, Stan will be fine. I’ll let him know the new plan,”_

“Good to hear! Don’t worry, soon you’ll be able to put all this behind you. _Real_ soon,”

_“Thanks,”_

_Click._

_Beep._

_Beep._

_Bmm bmm. Bmm bmm._

_“Hello?”_

“Ivan! Remember our conversation a few days ago?”

_“Yes?”_

“Not necessary. The brother’s taken care of. I’ll wait to see how this affects Pines. _Man_ , it would have been better if he’d never insisted on bringing people into this. Anyway, if it turns out his dependency on others is worse than it seems, he’ll have to go too. You hear me?”

_“Yes, sir. Loud and clear,”_

“You’re the best, Ivan! But not _too_ loud, just sayin’. I’ve had enough of security breaches,”

 

 **Otslezhivaniye Street, Murmansk (Russia)** ∆

Addi watched the little blue dot on Fiddleford’s computer. It slowed to a stop a few streets away and stayed there. She waited a few minutes more to be sure that it wasn’t going to move again, and when it didn’t she nudged Fiddleford awake.

“Huh? Wha?” he mumbled, dragging a hand down his face.

“They’ve stopped. Let’s go,”

He groaned as he adjusted himself in the driver’s seat of their rental car and started the engine. It was bitterly cold, so much so that the car’s engine almost couldn’t handle the sub-zero temperature and failed to start twice.

“I dunno why I thought I’d get to go home after China,” complained Fiddleford, edging out onto the icy street. Streetlights glistened all around them, the late-night/early-morning adding to the surreal effect.

“We _are_ going home,” countered Addi, “via Russia, apparently. Okay, right here.”

The car stopped outside a brightly lit bar, however Fiddleford left it idling. “Out ya get then,”

Addi paused halfway through unbuckling herself. “This is a mission.” She said, frowning. “What are _you_ planning to do?”

“I’m goin’ to go into that motel down this here street and try to get what sleep Ah can.” He nodded matter-of-factly to a neon red sign ahead.

“Jheselbraum wouldn’t like you ditching a mission,”

“She also wouldn’t like ya taking a detour before coming home. I won’t tell if you don’t,”

“So you’re just going to leave poor little me to deal with two hostiles alone, are you?” asked Addi, dismayed.

“One, poor little you will not have any problems takin’ down a couple of hostiles, and two, Agent Pines didn’t seem so dangerous when you two were cozied up in that little nook.” He snickered as Addi swatted his shoulder.

“Let’s add that to the list of things we won’t be telling Jheselbraum about,”

A blast of intensely cold air hit her as she stepped outside, and she wished she had _another_ five layers on.

“Good luck,” called Fiddleford smugly.

“Ugh, go get your beauty rest, hillbilly!”

“Thank ya darlin’, I will,”

“Wait! Are you sure I can’t convince you to join me? It’s r-really quite nice! B-Brisk!” Addi said desperately, stubbornness starting to desert her as the chill set in. _It would be great to have someone to cling to right about now._

Fiddleford gave her a flat look. “No,” he said, and drove off.

Addi slipped her way towards the bar, skidding every few feet like she was a very inept skater on a very frictionless ice rink. She hoped no one saw.

 

∆

“Communicator out,” the man just inside the door ordered Stan in a heavy Russian accent.

The bar was much nicer than he had expected. Good lighting, lots of space, a clientele of people other than criminals. The works. It was also much, much, warmer than outside, which immediately placed it in a favourable standing. He thought that if he had just wandered in for a quick drink, he never would have guessed that the Ne Podozritel'nyy tavern did steady business with the Mafia.

_Well, the security at the door might have been a clue, actually._

Stan shrugged and handed over his earpiece without complaint. He had a backup wire shoved down his shirt anyway.

“Anatoly will come for you soon,” the man said. What Stan needed to do from this point on was ensure that absolutely everything went smoothly.

 “Watch out,” added the man.

“For what?”

“WAAAAH!”

Stan had just enough time look around and see a blur of red and brown before a hundred and forty-five pounds of woman crashed into him, sending them both to the ground.

There came a muttered “Sorry, it was the ice,”

“Oof!” he groaned, as the impromptu skater kneed him in the gut while getting up.

“Sorry,”

“Communicator out,” said the man at the door again, unfazed.

Stan stood up as well, and he and Adeline Marks got a good look at each other.

_HOW IN THE HECK –_

The important thing to do was not give each other away. He just had to get inside, act suitably non-threatening while several members of the Mafia sized him up, and then he could sort out the situation with Agent Marks – who he really should have expected would show up.

“Oh,” she said disappointedly.

“Hmph,” grunted Stan, feeling that acting as a landing pad (and rushing to her rescue a few days before) should entitle him to a more gracious greeting.

“Communicator out,” repeated the man.

“How did you know I was wearing one?” asked Adeline curiously, removing it. She undoubtedly had another one on her person as well.

“I _always_ know. _Always_ ,” said the man ominously. Then he moved aside.

Stan and Adeline glanced at each other, then stepped into the lion’s den.

 

∆

Ford walked into the shelter of the motel. There was no one behind the tiny reception desk, so he made his way into the drab lounge and sat on a couch.

He was not comfortable leaving Stan. The Mafia were not the kind of people Ford had ever expected he would have dealings with. If anything, he thought he might work _against_ them at some point. The fact that Bill had brought up his acquaintance with them so easily was disturbing, to say the least. Then again, it had never been mentioned before, so presumably it never would be again, and he could move on as soon as this was over. Presumably. Besides, it was for a good cause. They weren’t going to hurt Stan (Bill had said so himself), and the meeting would be worth it.

Presumably.

Ford opened his laptop and laid out some sheets of blueprints on the coffee table in a feverish attempt to redirect his thoughts. A piece of paper fluttered out – a remnant from that morning, when he had been attempting to explain to Stan what he needed the filament material for without disclosing what he was building. It had left them both frustrated.

He was thinking about Stan again. Stan, who was one of the best fighters Ford knew, who would hold a much better chance going up against some Russian thug than himself, who would have no information to give away, who would be tortured anyway because obviously they wouldn’t believe him, who, out of the two of them, would always be the more protective one, but nevertheless Ford worried. Stan was his brother. His little brother, and how those fifteen minutes of age difference seemed so important all of a sudden.

He could work on the blueprints later.

Ford was just about to repack his materials when a snort and a jolt of movement surprised him. He had evidently been so absorbed in his thoughts he had not even noticed that the other couch was occupied.

“St’back!” Exclaimed the man, dragging himself into consciousness. “M’n’agent of-”

“Fiddleford McGucket?” asked Ford, the name leaping into his head.

Fiddleford paused, rubbing some sleep dust out of his eyes. “Stanford Pines? We were just lookin’ fer you.” He stared around for his partner. Ford looked also, trying not to feel ridiculously disappointed when Addi did not appear.

“Oh right. She thought you were in the bar,”

“She’s gone to the bar?!” Ford stood up frantically. Now not one, but two people he cared about could be in great danger, and he was just waiting around for them to be hurt, pouring over blueprints that Bill had –

Bill. Bill had set up the meeting with the Mafia. Bill had instructed him to let Stan collect the filament alone. This was all Bill’s doing.

So it must be fine. Everything was under control, and he was overthinking things.

Ford sat down again. “Erm, that’s reasonable. How did you find us?”

Fiddleford looked at him curiously but did not question his outburst. “Addi put a tracker on ya,”

Ford felt in his pockets, but there were no little metal buttons on his jacket. No, not his jacket. Stan’s jacket. What with the close quarters they had been living in for going on two weeks now, he and his brother had given up trying to sort through whose clothes were whose and just wore whatever was nearest now.

“I think she’s tracking Stan at the moment,”

“No kiddin’,”

They sat in uncertain silence.

“Is that a nanotech laser alignment system?” Fiddleford asked suddenly, staring at Ford’s blueprints with a look akin to Stan’s when he found thirty dollars lying on the street the other day.

Ford tried to snatch the blueprints away, but the other man was too fast, gawping at the outline of the gun drawn in neat white lines.

“It’s . . . a hobby,” said Ford wretchedly, trying not to look suspicious. It was lucky Fiddleford appeared not to notice; the only thing in his world at the moment was the components of the device, and how Ford had drawn them out.

“The trigger mechanism’ll break with the first use, and the control panel is dodgy at best. Ya’ve also got the filament in the wrong way.” He pronounced after a while. “Mind if I make a few changes?” At Ford’s open-mouthed nod, he pulled a white pen from nowhere and began to sketch.

 

∆

They sat at the bar, Addi stubbornly sticking to Stan’s side.

What are you doing here?” asked Stan, looking like he was barely restraining himself from checking over his shoulder at the people behind them.

“Where’s Ford?” Addi parried, examining him. “And what are _you_ guys doing here, for that matter?”

“We’re, er, Russian. This is home. We live here.” There was a loud laugh, and Stan almost jumped out of his seat.

“Yeah, you look really comfortable,” said Addi dryly.

“Thanks. It’s all the . . . Russianness,”

Addi snorted but stopped enquiring. This seemed like a meeting place, so she’d find out what was going on eventually.

“I’m guessing there’s a tracker on me?” predicted Stan.

“On Ford,”

Stan thought for a moment, then patted his pockets, drawing Addi’s little device out of one. “I thought this jacket was a bit small,” he said, handing it back to her.

“And I thought it looked familiar,” Addi agreed, recognising it as the one Ford had worn in China.

“Speaking of jackets, are you sure you’ve got enough on?” Stan joked, showing signs of relaxing more.

Addi looked down at her layers, comprised of two jackets, a sweater, two shirts, and a scarf, all in either red or brown. The colours fit in well with the other bar occupants. The amount, on the other hand . . .

“You’re just jealous because I’m warm,” she said primly, but removed a few layers all the same.

“Warm and lookin’ like a hippo,”

“What was that?” she glared.

“I said you look like a hippo. A really round one, too. Let’s play darts! I need to hold something sharp,”

 

∆

Ford eyed Fiddleford as he continued to modify the plans. It had taken him a week to even come up with that much, and here was this man acting like it was as simple as calculus.

“See, the conductivity means it’ll blow a circuit here,” explained Fiddleford, pointing to a miniscule wire, “so you haveta redirect the current flow more towards the control panel.”

“That’s genius!” Ford slapped a hand to his forehead, wondering why he had not noticed the problem before.

“Aw, thanks. Ya would’ve found out eventually,” Fiddleford said modestly.

“Yes, when it blew up in my face,”

Fiddleford handed the plans back for Ford to survey. While the diagrams were much more edited and messy than they had been several minutes ago, they were also much more feasible to make into reality.

“If you don’t mind me asking, where did you learn to do this?”

“Ah picked up a fair bit of it while workin’ for the people I work for. But mostly, Ah’ve just always been interested in it. There were always thingamajigs to fix on Ma and Dad’s farm, so I started off there,” Fiddleford said proudly. “Mechanics was always my thing. You got a fair way on this yerself though, and I read in your file you broke more’n a few records at Backupsmore University. Why were ya there of all places?”

Ford scratched the back of his head awkwardly. “I never meant to be. My dream school was always West Coast Tech.” He considered what to say, then decided on the truth. Fiddleford had already shared a piece of his own life with Ford, which he was under no obligation to do, so he should return the favour. It also helped that it was surprisingly easy to talk to the southerner. Not only was his friendliness a welcome change from the usual attitude of the strangers Ford encountered, but he felt a certain affinity with him: his practical engineer’s view fit together well with Ford’s scientific ideals.

“Our father’s company grew to an unprecedented size in Stan and I’s final year of school. At first that was great – we were no longer expected to make a fortune for our family, which was a relief to say the least. However, Pa expected us to work for him, following in his footsteps. Neither of us were exactly happy with that. Stan was offered a job first – probably because he didn’t have any solid ideas about what to do after school. When he declined, the situation got rather . . . heated. Things were said, I was pulled in, and it ended with Stan being kicked out. I followed. Long story short, we were scared, alone, not even adults really, and we became rather co-dependent. We decided to go to university together, which meant West Coast Tech was off the table as Stan isn’t that . . . scientifically inclined. Backupsmore was more affordable, anyway,”

“Ah’m sorry.” Fiddleford winced. “Sounds like your father was a real piece of work – not that it’s my place to say,”

Ford shook his head. “No, you’re right. If there was ever a model of what not to do as a parent, he could happily take its place,”

Fiddleford laughed. “‘What not to do as a parent’. Ah’ll make a note,”

“You’re a parent?” Ford asked, surprised.

“Yes, sir. This-” he pulled his wallet out of his pocket and showed Ford the photograph inside – “is Tate, with his mother Madeline. He turned five last month.” He grinned proudly.

“Well, he certainly looks . . . healthy,” Ford said, unsure how to comment. “How was the birthday?” He asked politely.

Fiddleford’s smile fell. “I, ah, wasn’t there. I had an assignment in London. Madeline said it was nice, though.” He took back the picture and stared at it sadly for a while. “D’ya ever find this kind of work demanding, Stanford?”

Ford didn’t answer. He tried not to think about how Stan, Adeline and Fiddleford were probably the only people aside from Bill he had talked to regularly in five years.

“Ah think that if I have ta consistently choose between my family and my work, then somethin’s not right with the way things’re run. I mean,” Fiddleford glanced up dejectedly, “we live on opposite sides of the country and Ah only get ta see them twice a month if I’m lucky. What kinda conditions are those?”

Again, Ford kept quiet.

“Not any that I’m willin’ to put up with. I’ll be retirin’ next year. I’ve had enough of this kind of life,”

“That’s very honourable of you,” offered Ford.

Fiddleford waved a hand dismissively. “Nah, it’s just what should be expected. What kind of person am I if I’m not there for the people who need me?”

Ford looked down at his schematics again. He really needed to stop talking about personal stuff: all it did was make him question things, and he wasn’t exactly comfortable with the answers.

“Did you say something about the control panel being of poor quality?”

“Yes. It would function better as a dial,” Fiddleford said, shaking himself out of his thoughts.

“In that case, would you mind helping me out some more? Your input would be invaluable,”

The white pen eagerly appeared again.

 

∆

“You know you’re supposed to hit the dartboard, right?” Addi smirked as Stan’s dart dinged off the metal rim.

“Shuddup, or I’ll-”

“Spear me? Nice try, but I think you’d miss,”

Stan huffed. “I’m just warming up, alright?”

“Yeah, I bet you’re a real Robin Hood,” she laughed.

Stan glared, and threw the dart without looking. It landed on the bullseye.

“Huh.” Addi reconsidered her opponent.

“Hah! Yes! Beat that, Miss Sarcastic Mockery!” Stan did a victory dance.

“‘Miss Sarcastic Mockery’? Is that really the best you can do, Mullet Man?” Addi challenged, collecting the darts.

“No, I was just going easy on you, Cowlick.” He flicked the offending strands of hair with a finger.

Addi gasped and her dart went wide, thudding into the wall next to the target.

“Hey!” She snatched her hair back as Stan crowed in triumph. “Not funny!” She tried to flatten it self-consciously.

“Relax, no one cares,” dismissed Stan, retrieving the errant dart.

“Easy for you to say,” she muttered belligerently.

“No really, if anyone’s hair’s going to be attracting attention, it’ll be mine, as you so hilariously pointed out.” He walked back and handed over the dart. Addi took it sheepishly, offering an apologetic smile which she could tell Stan pretended not to see.

“You can take the shot again.” He said gruffly, gesturing to the board and stepping out of the way.

“Aww, you softie,” Addi said teasingly, nudging him with her shoulder.

“I’m not a softie. You’re a softie! You can’t prove anything!” He looked around furtively, gaze landing suspiciously on some people nearby as though they were dealing “Stan Pines is a Nice Guy” leaflets under the table. Addi laughed again, this time genuinely.

A few turns later, Addi remarked, “You know, you and your brother are so different,”

Stan checked his watch.

“You have somewhere to be?” she inquired, loosing another dart.

“No, just timing how long it’s been since you last mentioned Ford. Seven minutes, not bad,”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She spluttered, already feeling warm.

“Nothing.” Stan said innocently. “Just, hypothetically, it would do him good to see you more. Or more of you, whichever,”

She punched him in the arm for that.

“Ow, okay, sorry. But I’m serious. He’s a bit . . . isolated.” A frown of worry crossed his face, and he twiddled a dart between his fingers agitatedly. “I think the more people he can talk to, the better off he’ll be.” Then suddenly the dark atmosphere dissipated, and Stan was grinning at her again. “Besides, he’s into you,”

“Stop talking,” Addi implored him.

“Hey, it’s not my business-”

“Exactly. Now shoot,”

“- _but_ , a word of advice-”

“I don’t need advice. Why are you giving me advice? Who says I need advice, hmm? I could be a regular ol’ Casanova,”

Stan raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Stranger things have – wait, no, never mind. Anyway, if anyone is a Casanova, it’s me.” He puffed out his chest. “I’ve managed to convince a girl to stay in love with me for more than – wait for it – _two years_.”

“What’s she like?” asked Addi, wondering if this was another joke.

Stan gave her his biggest smile yet. “Amazing. Really, really amazing.” He stared off into the distance for a moment, and then said quietly, “I’m going to marry her,” before looking just as surprised at the admission as Addi was.

“AWWW!”

“Don’t say it, don’t you say it-”

“You’re softer than a marshmallow, Stan,”

“That’s even worse,” The man had gone very red and was concentrating intently on aiming at the dartboard. It would have been a decent recovery if he hadn’t already thrown all his darts.

Someone at the bar dropped a glass, making a loud shattering sound which made Stan jolt upright.

_Dang, and I thought he’d finally relaxed._

“Stan, what is going on?” Addi said exasperatedly. “You’re acting like the Mafia’s out to get you,”

Stan looked at her. Addi looked back.

“No,” she said in a hushed voice.

 

∆

The keypad control panel became a dial. The bulb elongated. A few materials changed. Ford could almost feel what it was going to be like holding the device in his hand, it seemed so close to completion.

“What’s this for, Stanford? It doesn’t fire any kind of laser I’ve ever seen,”

“It wouldn’t. It’s the first of its kind,”

Fiddleford waited for more information. Ford knew he should not give it. Bill would be furious that he had even shown Fiddleford the blueprints. He had made so many mistakes lately, done so many things that went against the Cipher Wheel’s modus operandi, and he was not sure how tolerant Bill would be if he found out about even half of them. It was just as well he could not see into Ford’s head.

Well, what was one more mistake?

“It’s called a memory gun,” he said reluctantly.

Fiddleford tapped the schematics thoughtfully. “I’m guessin’ it erases memories?”

“Collects them, to be more accurate. And I’m certain that’s what it actually _will_ do, now that you’ve seen to it. Or it could possibly turn their entire being to stone, killing them as efficiently as Medusa. Hopefully, that risk has been minimised. I’ll find out eventually, I suppose,” Ford said lightly.

Fiddleford looked very wary. “Ah can see why the high-uppers would want somethin’ like this. A way to control people. But why are _you_ making it?”

“No, no, it’s not to hurt people. In fact, it will hopefully result in much less suffering. If you can take someone’s memories directly, then you don’t need to coerce them, or force them, or torture them into revealing what they know. It could act as a force for justice, too: no more trying to piece together evidence for whether a criminal is guilty, just look at their memories,”

“I agree with ya, Stanford, I do.” Fiddleford said earnestly, rubbing his face with a hand. “It could be great. A way to keep people safe. You’d get a whole lot of thanks for it. But just because I trust _you_ with it doesn’t mean I’d trust anyone else not to use it fer their own ends. I don’t think I’m exaggeratin’ when I say this could topple governments,”

“You don’t have to worry about that.” Said Ford confidently. “The people I work for might be a bit . . . unconventional, but it’s for the good of humanity, I promise.”

 

∆

“Stan Pines?” Rumbled an accented voice.

Stan went cold. It was time for the meeting.

“Yeah, that’s me,” he answered.

“This way,”

Anatoly led them to a back room, the sliding door opening on smooth, silent, rails.

“Not you,” another man on the other side said, holding up a hand to stop Addi from entering.

“I’m with him.” she said brightly. “Stanford Pines told us both to come.”

The Russian mobsters glanced at each other, then shrugged in unison and let her through. Stan’s already bad feeling worsened.

“You’re not getting away that easily,” Addi told him in a low voice, winking and seemingly unaffected by the situation.

“Alright, so, you have the filament? This is just a pick-up, right? Because I didn’t bring anything to trade,” Stan said, facing the Russians.

“This is not a pick-up. It is a drop-off,”

A leaden weight started to settle in Stan’s stomach.

“The filament will be delivered to Stanford Pines,”

The weight was somewhere near his bowels now. Neither of the men were attempting to hide the firearms at their hips. Professionally, they both reached for them. Stan hoped he wasn’t going to crap himself. The only thing more embarrassing than walking unarmed straight into a probable trap was stinking up the place to boot.

“Why do I get the feeling I don’t want to be here anymore?” whispered Addi beside him.

“You and me both,” he replied hoarsely.

The men drew their guns – old-fashioned revolvers – and Stan and Addi leapt into action.

There was a short struggle. He didn’t even get to land a punch before a gun was digging into his forehead and Addi was subsequently surrendering.

 

∆

There was a hiss in Ford’s ear.

“Did you hear that?” he asked Fiddleford, prodding his communicator.

“Yeah. Must’ve lost connection. Don’t worry, it’ll probably be back in a few minutes,”

Ford was not too reassured, and Fiddleford could clearly tell.

“Ford, it’s not like they’ve walked into a dead zone. It’s just a bar,”

 _A bar which does business with the Mafia_ , thought Ford, but he did not say anything. It was all under control. Bill had said so.

 

∆

Stan had to hand it to the guys, they knew how to tie people up efficiently. They had him and Addi sitting side by side in wooden chairs, their hands bound tightly to the furniture’s sides, in under a minute.

The men seemed in no hurry to kill them. Because that’s what they were going to do, right? Someone had ordered a hit on Stan, and Addi was caught in the crossfire. But who would’ve wanted to get at him? He’d never even been to Russia before, he had no enemies, no reason for anyone to want him dead. Could it be someone from back in the States? Rico had never caught up to him, after all. No, that was stupid. If Rico wanted to kill him, he’d do it up close and personal, not through the Russian Mafia of all things. So what was this about? How was he going to get out of this? _Think, Stan, think._

He strained against his bonds, but the only things that came to mind were more grudging compliments about the knot’s workmanship.

“Any luck?” He muttered to Addi. She shook her head.

“Do you think we could scuttle to the door before they caught us?” she asked, half-joking. At the moment, Stan was willing to consider anything. Their legs weren’t tied, after all.

“I’ve done crazier things,” he decided.

The Russians stopped their conversation and came back over. Too late.

“We do not have anything else to do tonight,” Anatoly grinned.

“So we might as well use up some time.” The other finished. Stan decided he’d call him Boris. “How about a game of-”

“Russian roulette? Wow, real original, guys.” Stan rolled his eyes to distract from the fact that he was starting to sweat.

“What, just because we’re Russian, you assume Russian roulette? Stereotypical,” grumbled Boris.

“No, not the roulette.” Anatoly dismissed. “We want you to die, not us.”

“How silly of us,” said Addi faintly.

“Yes. We were thinking more along the lines of-”

“We only point the gun at you. None for us,”

 

∆

“Do you remember what was going on before we lost connection?” said Ford.

“They were playin’ darts, I think,” said Fiddleford.

Ford shifted restlessly.

 

∆

“WHOA! Whoa, whoa, whoa, listen guys,” Stan said as the men slowly and deliberately emptied the bullets from their revolvers’ six chambers. “You don’t want to do this. You’re – you’re gonna make a lot of enemies if you don’t let us go,”

A solitary bullet was slotted into each gun. Stan swallowed.

“I mean, for a start there’s the American government. They’re not gonna stand for their citizens being killed on foreign soil,” _They wouldn’t stand for their citizens stealing on foreign soil either._

“And then there’s – er, the FBI. I’ve got this gig with them . . .”

Boris flashed a very amused grin.

“And, er.” he looked at Adeline and was struck with inspiration. “Her parents, Adeline’s parents! They own Marks Incorporated, they could make life difficult for you!”

“Yeah, they . . . they might be upset if I die,” faltered Addi, “but also, media coverage!”

“Yes!” Stan agreed.

“That would expose this place, and eventually the entire Mafia network!”

The men took no notice. Stan knew that all these arguments were weak; it was likely that no one would ever even know they died. He and Addi would have just . . . disappeared. Ford would probably guess what had happened. He might tell Carla, and Ma. Or he might not. Stan just didn’t know any more.

“I’m sorry,” he said, meeting Addi’s eyes. The men spun their revolvers, then trained one on him and one on his friend. She didn’t look like she could say anything in reply.

“We’ll take it in turns, how about it? You first, then the lady,”

“Any last-minute cries for help?”

“ _Ty, synov'ya pirogov, nadeyus', ty upadesh' v dukhovku_ _,_ ” Addi said steadily.

“Fair enough. And you?”

“How about you untie me and then I can kick your ass fair and square?”

“Nice try, American. Three, two, one,”

He pulled the trigger.

 

∆

Ford ran a hand through his hair, no longer attempting to conceal his worry.

“How long did you say the connection should be out for?” he asked.

“It was supposed ta come back a minute ago, at the latest.” Said Fiddleford tensely. “Stanford, who’s your brother meeting?”

 

∆

Stan was breathing hard, but he was breathing. That was something, at least, until his next turn.

He might not be a genius like Ford, but he sure as hell knew how to play games of chance. The common mistake with Russian roulette was to think there were one in six odds of pulling the trigger with the bullet in the fatal position. In reality, gravity might help out a bit, meaning that the chamber with the bullet _might_ end up at the bottom, and a player _might_ survive the first round. He was guessing that was what had happened in his case.

He was hoping that was what had happened with Addi, too.

Her breathing quickened as she waited. Her executor was making her _wait_ , the sadist. He wanted her to start begging. She didn’t. She stared solidly down the barrel, refusing to move even a muscle, not letting the slightest si-

_Click._

Addi jerked and fell so her head was touching her knees, gasping.

_Click._

Stan gave a strangled yell. No waiting for him, apparently.

The next turn or the one after. That was when probability said he and Addi would die.

_Click._

 

∆

Ford didn’t answer.

“Stanford.” Fiddleford’s voice had a dangerous tinge to it. “Is Adeline in danger? _Who is Stan meeting?_ ”

Ford shook his head.

“We need to go. Right now,” he managed.

 

∆

 _Now_ they were making him wait.

One beat. Two, three. Four five sixseveneight –

_Click._

Stan bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, his hand leaping to grip Addi’s, needing something to ground him. She held him back just as tightly. He could feel pins and needles starting where his circulation was being cut off, and the sweat coating both their palms did nothing but remind him how easy it would be to slip away –

_Click._

“Jesus,” she sobbed, the first sound she’d made since the game started. If he could hug her, he would.

Anatoly laughed and said something to his friend. Blood was roaring in Stan’s ears and he wanted so badly to scream and fight, but any attempt to would just amuse them. Well, the last thing he’d do is give them the satisfaction. Oh. Oh no. Bad choice of words.

Wild hope sprung in him as the gun was levelled. Maybe he’d get lucky another time.

Pull the hammer back to cock it.

There were five empty chambers, why couldn’t the next one have no bullet? Who says that stuff about it starting off at the bottom was even true?

Adjust grip.

Was the gun listing down a little? That could be his imagination. The guy might be getting tired after all this standing around.

Close one eye, just for the look of the thing.

Pull the trigger.

**BANG.**

Stan flinched so hard he felt something splinter. It could have just as easily been him as the chair.

_Oh God, oh God, he missed, thank you, thank you, he missed . . ._

“STEP AWAY NOW!”

**BANG.**

If he hadn’t broken something with the first shot, he definitely had with the second. He still couldn’t tell if it was him or the chair.

His head swung around to Addi, praying that she wasn’t slumped over, bloodstained, lifeless –

Her hand was quivering just as much as his. She hadn’t drawn a breath yet, and she was sheet-white, but she was staring right back at him, making sure he was alive too.

“Addi?! Addi, you okay? Addi, I need ya ta look at me,”

Fiddleford’s head encompassed his field of view.

“S-Stan? I’m so sorry, let’s just . . . untie these,” His brother’s familiar six-fingered hand scrabbled at the ropes around his wrists. “Wow, these are really well done,”

“That’s what I thought,” said Stan weakly.

His sight seemed to come online again, letting him process the events of the last few seconds. Both Russians were lying prone on the ground. He hoped they were dead.

“Didn’t know you could sound scary,” he muttered to Ford. The ropes fell and his brother just hugged him as hard as he could. Stan was dimly aware the same thing was happening with Addi and Fiddleford.

If there was a wet spot growing steadily on Ford’s shoulder, neither of them mentioned it.

 

∆

At some point, Addi’s hand had joined Ford's.

All four of them were standing out of view as the Murmansk police convened outside the Ne Podozritel'nyy tavern. Addi and Stan had stopped shivering from shock, thank goodness. Now they were shivering from cold. Ford thought it was high time they got back under cover.

 “Found this, by the way,” Stan said, waving something small at him.

“What?” said Ford dumbly.

“The filament. It was in one of those guy’s pockets,”

Ford kept staring until he finally got the message. _Oh right, we came to Russia for a reason._ He tried not to detest the piece of metal as he reluctantly let go of Addi’s hand to take it.

“I guess this is goodbye.” Fiddleford said, firmly shaking Stan’s hand, then Ford’s. “Really, this time. But Ah daresay we'll meet again anyway,"

“I look forward to it,” said Ford genuinely.

Fiddleford opened his car door and started up the engine on the third try. “Stanford?” he called, before shutting the door.

“Yes?”

“Don’t be so darn stupid again,” The relief and warmth in his voice took most of the sting away, but his meaning was still clear.

“I don’t think he can promise that,” Stan chimed in.

“Wouldn’t be Ford if he could,” agreed Addi, stepping forward and embracing him.

“I will try to be better, though,” he told her softly. “I’m so sorry,”

She nodded into his still-damp shoulder and released him a few seconds later with a kiss on the cheek. He could have sworn the temperature rose several degrees.

“Bye Stan. It was awful being death buddies with you,” she hugged his brother briefly as well.

“Here’s to hoping that never happens again,” Stan concurred whole-heartedly.

As Addi hopped into the car, Fiddleford said meaningfully, “Stanford, if ya need help – just let us know. Help with anything, mind you,”

Ford nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. The moment was ruined by his phone ringing.

He sighed as he looked at the blocked number. He really was not in the mood for this.

“Yes?”

_“Fordsy! Heard the Mafia went a bit off-script!”_

“You could say that,” Ford answered tightly.

_“Well, no harm done, eh? Time to come back home and start construction! Saying goodbye to your bro will be difficult, but it’s not like this was a permanent arrangement. Gotta happen sometime,”_

“Perhaps,” he answered coldly. He felt Bill could have phrased that better.

_“Hey Sixer. You remember the first rule I drilled into you?”_

“Of course.” The others had started up another conversation.

_“Mind telling me what it was?”_

Someone cracked a joke that made them all laugh. “Trust no one,”

 _“Are you sure you’re following that rule,_ pal _?”_

“Yes,” Ford said, lying through his teeth and regretting it precisely zero percent.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fiddleford: well fine, if there's no one around to give me a bed, I'll sleep on the damn couch. I AM TIRED.
> 
> Since they were behaving more like a single unit than two separate people after leaving home in this AU, Stan and Ford found that the FBI was like a convergence point of their interests and applied. Neither of them were really happy as individuals while they were there, and Ford began to feel stifled, which eventually led to their fight and separation. Stan would have begun to feel that way also, given time.
> 
> For the umpteenth time, the earpieces are out of commission.
> 
> I recommend you translate Addi's "last words". I'm very proud.
> 
> Spy trope no. 42: A conspiracy  
> Spy trope no. 43: Dangerous Russians  
> Spy trope no. 44: Uncanny accuracy with a projectile  
> Spy trope no. 45: Blueprints of a secret weapon  
> Spy trope no. 46: Saved in the nick of time


	7. A Dream Come True

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phase 1: Collection  
> Phase 2: Construction
> 
> There's a bit of a time jump in this one, so if you find yourself wondering, "Wait, what's Stan doing here?" then that's your answer. It's only, like, a day, so don't freak out. More of an explanation at the end.

**Chicago, Illinois (USA)** ∆

No matter what Ford did, he could not seem to move fast enough. It was the ice on the road, the people in the way, the very _air_ in front of him that slowed him down. Something unspeakable was happening to his brother, he could practically feel it, and if Addi was with him . . .

He and Fiddleford burst into the bar, barrelling past the doorman like he was non-existent. They stopped.

_Too slow, too slow!_

Back room. Ford saw it instantly.

_Move!_

People blocked his path. Drawing his gun solved that problem.

 _F_ _aster!_

His ears were roaring and he did not think it was all to do with the blood rushing through his veins. The look on his face cleared the crowd quicker than his weapon. Ten steps to the door, five, zero, Fiddleford slammed it open before him, two men, backs exposed, blocking the view beyond, God help them if either of their captives were hurt, strike that, not taking any chances. Or prisoners.

He fired two silent gunshots and he saw the bodies fall to the floor. There was no need to worry about them anymore, so they dissipated. The only important thing was that Stan and Addi were safe now –

On the floor. Shape on the floor. Lying.

Blood on his shoes.

He was too late.

There was already a round little hole in Stan’s head, and his skin was cold, so cold, colder than the outside air. Red trickled down his face, pooled on the floor, lapped against Ford’s knees as he fell, fisting his hands into his brother’s shirt and yelling into his chest while that same muted sensation continued to crash down, muffling everything.

There was another bloodless hand lying next to Stan’s – smaller. Addi’s. The hair splayed underneath her elbow was matted with darkness. He could not bear to look any further and reached out to touch her.

Footsteps. He looked up. Bill stood above him, looking viciously delighted at the shining memory gun in his hand.

“ALRIGHT SIXER, LET’S GET TO WORK!”

Everything flashed yellow.

 

∆

It was an hour past midnight. Stan really shouldn’t be awake. On the other hand, it wasn’t like he was going to get to sleep anyway, so he might as well do something productive.

The apartment lights cast a soft glow on the scene. He had been rooting carefully through Ford’s bags, looking for some evidence of whatever all these machines and materials were going to be used for. It wasn’t like he could stop Ford: they were at the end of their collaboration, as he would put it. He was just trying to settle his own fears about his brother going back to whatever situation he was in.

“STAN!”

The door on the left side of the entrance hallway banged open, Ford hurtling out in his shirt and boxers, ruffle-haired and wild-eyed, half-asleep. He crashed into the door opposite, knocked frantically for a fraction of a second, then fell through into Stan’s room. There was a moment of silence, then –

“STAN!”

“Whoa, I’m right here bro,” Stan said from the living room, hurriedly shutting a bag full of machinery. He stood and went to see what was wrong.

Ford stumbled out again, letting out a shuddering breath when he saw him.

“Just a dream, just a dream,” he muttered. Stan winced in understanding, patting his brother’s shoulder soothingly. He didn’t think it would be too far out of field to think Russia was no longer part of either of their preferred holiday destinations.

Ford raised both hands to rub his face tiredly. One had a gun in it.

“Okay, whoa, no, let’s get you back to bed.” Stan said, snatching the firearm away as Ford looked at it in bleary confusion. “Come on, let’s go.”

“I’m not tired,” Ford protested, swaying.

“Load of crap,”

He steered Ford back into his room, the man falling asleep as soon as he flopped on top of the sheets. _Good enough,_ Stan supposed.

His search was getting nowhere. He should head back to his own bed and try to sleep, unlikely as it was to happen. He was turning to go when a shine caught his eye.

That journal of Ford’s was lying on his bedside table, hallway light bouncing off the gold six-fingered hand on the cover. He hesitated before sitting down on the edge of the bed, picking it up, and flipping through. Starting with the most recent entry, he began to translate and read the code inside.

_Russia was . . . not ideal. B changed the plans so that S and I would be split up, which was only the start of the problems we would eventually face. Quite apart from anything else, I do not have much time with my brother left before we part ways, and I am feeling now more urgently than ever how every second counts._

_I cannot help but feel as though B was wrong to set up the meeting with the Mafia, regardless of how beneficial it was – we did retrieve the filament. Far be it from me to second-guess him, nevertheless, I am unable to say with any sort of confidence that I have complete faith in his wisdom now. On the other hand, I expect that the incident would not have rattled me so badly had I been alone. Alone, I do not stand to lose the people close to me, and nor can anyone be tempted to take them. Perhaps this is why B is so adamant about having solitary operatives._

_One of the agents we have encountered on previous missions, F, proved to be a great help in refining the design for the device. Conversely, A and S found themselves in a situation no one should ever have to face. I swear I have never been more scared in my life. I cannot understand why either of them were able to look me in the eye afterwards. After all, I was responsible for what they had to endure. That being said, I am also immensely grateful that they seemed to place not even the slightest blame on me. They deserve a much better friend than myself. Hopefully I will be able to live up to that one day._

The writing continued, detailing the events of the night. Stan didn’t read any further.

“Sixer, you knucklehead . . .” he said softly, shaking his head at Ford’s lightly snoring form.

 

∆

Chicago DuPage County Airport was _busy_. An unbelievable amount of people crowded the waiting area.

“Must be winter holidays,” Stan said.

“What?” called Ford.

“I said it must be winter holidays!”

“What?!”

Stan waved a hand, dismissing the comment. They attempted to move further away from the crowds. At this rate, they wouldn’t hear the calls for their flights.

Not flight. Flights. Here was where they parted ways. Stan to California, Ford to Oregon. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen to them after this. Would it be another five years of silence? Longer? Would he never get another postcard in the mail? He could always drive up to Gravity Falls. He knew where Ford lived now. But would Ford want to stay in contact? Would he decide that his work was too important again, or – especially after Russia – would he decide it was too dangerous for anyone else?

A three-tone dial sounded loudly over the speakers. Ford’s flight was boarding.

“I guess this is it,” Ford said, distinctly dispirited.

“Yeah,” Stan said, trying to convince himself that no, his throat was not closing up.

“I’ll, um, have someone get the Stanmobile back to you,”

“Oh yeah! Right.” He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten about his car.

A silence bloomed, where neither of them were sure what to say. Ford cleared his throat and frowned at the ground.

“Goodbye, Stan,”

Stan looked at the ceiling. “Seeya rou – I mean, bye, Ford.”

Ford nodded shortly, then spun on his heel and left. Stan sighed. _Good one._ He looked for somewhere to sit down –

\- and Ford crashed into him, hugging him tightly. Stan responded gladly.

“Don’t get too caught up in your work, nerd,” he said thickly.

“I won’t. Would it – would it be okay if I came to see you after it’s finished?”

He did not sniff, _he did not just sniff._ “Yeah. Yeah that would be – be good,”

With a lot more throat-clearing and gruff pats on the back, they both pulled away and gave each other smiles that were definitely _not_ watery. Then Ford went off to find his plane for real.

Another announcement was made over the speaker.

_“-to Sacramento, California has been delayed. Approximate waiting time is thirty hours. The next available flight to Sacramento is in twenty hours. We are not that sorry for the inconvenience. It’s not our flight, after all,”_

Unbelievable.

He might as well head back to the hotel, then. Glumly, he realised that this time he’d have to pay for a room himself, since Ford had taken all his money with him. Well, it had only been two flipping weeks without seeing Carla, what was one more day? A damn mess, that’s what.

A jewellery store caught his eye as he passed.

He supposed if he was going to do this, he might as well do it properly.

 

 **Manhattan, New York (USA)** ∆

“Agent Marks, come in,”

Addi entered Jheselbraum’s office, still stretching out her muscles after the flight from Atlanta and the drive from LaGuardia. It was very early in the morning, and she was still recovering from the jet lag hanging around after the Russia flight.

“How are you?”

“Happy to be back,” Addi said firmly, approaching the desk and sitting in the chair opposite the director.

Jheselbraum examined her closely. “You don’t look like you slept well,”

From past experience, Addi knew that deflecting the question or outright lying would not do her any favours. Once, Jheselbraum had gone so far as to drive her home herself when she had kept insisting she was fine after a particularly rough mission.

Russia had been a new kind of rough. Things had never gotten that close before. Addi didn’t want to admit it to anyone, even herself, but at the moment fieldwork . . . didn’t seem as fun as it used to. She bet that the most danger the building’s analysts had been in lately was of a stapler fight if someone forgot to unjam the printer.

“We had a couple close calls on this one,” she eventually said, avoiding Jheselbraum’s eyes.

The other woman stood up and walked around to her side, signalling that it wasn’t necessary for Addi to stand. She leaned against the desk and placed her hand lightly on Addi’s shoulder.

“You’re safe now,” she said plainly, “and you’ll have a rest from dangerous missions for a few weeks.”

Her tone brooked no argument, and frankly, Addi wouldn’t have protested anyway.

“Take the rest of the day off,” Jheselbraum added, “have a warm bath, do what you want for a change. Put high-stakes chance games out of your mind.”

Addi started. She hadn’t included Russia in her report or debrief, for the obvious reason that it hadn’t been a sanctioned operation, and the not-so-obvious reason that there were only a few people she was willing to talk about it with – four, to be exact, including the woman in front of her.

“How did you know about that?”

“About what?” Jheselbraum smiled. Then she sat back down behind her desk as Addi took her leave.

 

 **San Jose, California (USA)** ∆

“It’s about dang time,” Fiddleford sighed longingly, when he had retrieved his luggage from the baggage claim. He was finally getting to go home. It had been far too long since he’d seen Tate’s drawings stuck on the fridge, heard Madeline singing as she moved around the house, and held them both in his arms as they settled down to watch TV. Just a few more hours, and after that a few more months, and then he wouldn’t have to leave home at all.

His phone rang.

“I sure hope this isn’t Jheselbraum about to tell me Ah can’t go home yet.” He looked at the caller ID. “That ain’t a good sign. Yes ma’am?”

_“Agent McGucket, I’m sorry to do this to you, but you can’t go home yet,”_

It wasn’t a surprise, but it still chafed. However, it was not like he was going to ignore whatever assignment Jheselbraum had for him; the work they did was important, even if he was tiring of it.

“What is it? And is it at all nearby?”

 _“Indeed it is. If there was anyone else in the area, I would have asked them, but unfortunately you are the only agent in several organisations who is close,”_ Jheselbraum said, genuine regret in her voice.

“Aren’t I lucky,”

_“Do you recall our FBI contact, Carla McCorkle? I’ve decided it’s time to unite our investigations. I need you to head over there immediately and give her a copy of our findings. She’s at the FBI field office in Sacramento,”_

Fiddleford sighed again. Nothing like a few hours driving after a few hours flying.

“You got it,”

_“I promise that you’re free to spend a few days off as soon as you’re done. Again, I am so sorry,”_

“Thank ya kindly, ma’am,” Fiddleford said with only the barest trace of acerbity, which he simultaneously regretted and did not.

 

 **Sacramento, California (USA)** ∆

Carla tried not to feel like she was being watched. It was something she was fighting more and more lately.

There was a spy in the FBI, specifically assigned to her and her work. She couldn’t tell anyone about it, because that would draw their attention. She didn’t know who it was, and she couldn’t investigate, because the spy might find out. Everyone was a suspect. The janitor had surprised her the other day and she’d almost punched him in the face.

When she received a text from Jheselbraum, she breathed more easily than she had in days. With no word from her, no one to confide in, and no one to take her mind off the situation, she’d been feeling extremely cut-off and isolated, not to mention simultaneously anxious and bored. She’d swept her office for bugs four times.

Carla’s fingers were busy tapping a tattoo on the desk until the office phone rang. She scrambled to pick it up.

_“Agent McCorkle, there’s someone here to see you. Says his director sent him here for a meeting with you?”_

“Send him up!” She tried not to sound too eager.

A minute later, a weary-looking man with glasses and a green suit stepped into her office and closed the door behind him.

“Hi, I’m Senior Special Agent Carla McCorkle,” Carla said, holding out her hand.

“Agent Fiddleford McGucket. Jheselbraum sent me,” Fiddleford said, shaking it.

“Please,” Carla beseeched as they sat, “tell me you have something good. Our case has gone so stale that yesterday Agent Wexler tried to get the Special Agent-in-Charge to tell me to give it up.”

Fiddleford frowned slightly and handed over a thumb drive. “Ah can’t say whether this’ll do ya much good, but it’s worth a try. That there’s everything we’ve managed to collect on the Cipher Wheel,”

Anticipation stirred in her as she took the drive and inserted it into her computer. It contained a single file. _Okay, so that’s a little unexpected, but this is the work of an entire agency here. It must be good._

She downloaded the document.

“Symbols?” she said blankly, scrolling through. The document contained pictures of maybe ten symbols, the locations said symbols had been found, and underneath each a detailed report of any unlawful, suspicious or just plain unusual activity in the area at the time it had been discovered.

Fiddleford grimaced. “Yep. Just symbols. Ah expect it doesn’t help much?”

“Oh no, no,” said Carla hurriedly.

“It’s alright if ya say so,”

“No, no, I’m sure it will be . . . of some use . . . maybe. I’ll have to go over what we have again, see if any crop up,”

“Good luck.” Fiddleford said. “We think those symbols are a kind of signature for Cipher Wheel operatives. If they contact someone, this is how they show they’re workin’ for Bill Cipher, or maybe it’s just to show who they are without giving away their names. We’ve only managed to get these from reconstructin’ burned documents. They’re thorough, whoever they are,”

“Tell me about it,” Carla muttered. She ejected the USB and put it safely in a pocket. “I suppose all that’s left now is to-”

The door banged open.

“Hey darl’, guess who’s back!”

Stan practically leapt into the room, motormouth running at full speed. “We are finally in the same place after two weeks and three days, so grab your coat because I’m taking you out-” He spotted Fiddleford and slammed on the figurative brakes, an astonished look on his face. Fiddleford’s mouth dropped open. Carla noticed everything.

Funnily enough, the first question she voiced was not “How do you two know each other?” because something more surprising had occurred to her.

“Did you cut your hair?”

“Uh, yeah,” Stan touched his shortened locks quite vulnerably, looking more like a deer in headlights with every passing moment.

Not only had Stan foregone the mullet, he looked like he was wearing some new clothes, too. He’d really neatened up while he was away.

Wait.

A thrill went through her.

He was back! He was finally back!

“You work for the FBI?” asked Fiddleford finally, looking baffled, but there was a faint grin appearing on his face which showed he was pleased to see Stan. _Not enemies then._

“ _With_ the FBI,” Carla and Stan corrected at the same time.

“So what were ya doin’ overseas?”

“Actually, I’d quite like to know that as well. _And_ why you two have met,” added Carla.

“Can’t say,” said Stan and Fiddleford quickly.

“Mission secrecy,” elaborated Fiddleford.

Stan addressed the Oracle agent. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“That’s classified,” responded Carla and Fiddleford together. A strange mixture of emotions swirled around inside her. There was irritation and curiosity about what these two had gotten up to overseas, but they were quickly dissipating in an onslaught of sheer joy – she might just refrain from interrogating the men! For a maximum of two hours and thirty minutes!

Fiddleford suppressed a laugh at the way their inquiries were going. “Well, nice ta meet ya, Agent McCorkle, and it was good seein’ ya again, Stan.” He said, getting up to leave. “I doubt this’s the last time, either.”

“At the rate this is going, we’ll probably end up working together,” agreed Stan, shaking Fiddleford’s hand.

The agent went to the door, with a last amazed look in Stan’s direction.

“Oh! Wait!” Carla exclaimed before he could leave, her responsibility to her job shining through despite her excitement to spend some time with Stan. “Don’t you need the FBI’s informa-”

“Lalalala!” said Fiddleford loudly, sticking his fingers in his ears. “ _No_ lalalalala _I’mgoin’home_ lalalala _here’smanumberifyaneeditandonlyifyouneeditmindyou_ lalala!”

He tossed her a card that was blank except from a phone number in the centre, then hurried away, presumably before anyone could call him back and delay his departure.

“I like him,” Carla decided. Then she vaulted over her desk and flung herself at Stan, wrapping him in her arms and not wanting to let go.

“Whoa!” Stan laughed as he caught her and hugged her tightly. “I’ve missed you,” he mumbled into her hair.

“Missed you too,”

 Stan let go. “Do you have work to do?”

Carla’s answer was a frown.

“Well, not anymore! We’re going out!” He grabbed her hand and dragged her out the door, snagging her coat and bag on the way. Carla didn’t complain.

 

 **Manhattan, New York (USA)** ∆

Addi could feel tension that she hadn’t even been aware of draining out of her. She was curled up in a blanket, sitting in her pyjamas, watching her favourite movie, and eating snacks. She was free to do what she liked for the first time in a long, long while, and as a result her head was beginning to droop with the peace of it all. She felt completely safe.

The phone seemed to blare into the silence, shocking her out of drowsiness. She tripped over her blanket as she shot off the couch towards the kitchen, stumbling over it and using an athletic manoeuvre to roll when she hit the ground and come up right where the phone was.

“Yes? Hello?” she said through uneven breaths.

 _“Agent Marks,”_ said an unfamiliar voice, _“these are your superiors,”_

Addi was quiet. “You mean . . . as in Jheselbraum’s overseers?”

_“Yes,”_

“The in-charge people?”

_"Yes,”_

“The head honchos?”

_“Yes,”_

“The-”

 _“_ Yes _. We are contacting you for a very important reason,”_

“Why directly? Why not through Jheselbraum? That’s how missions are usually assigned,”

_“This is a one-time scenario. Rest assured, it will not happen again. To you, or any of Oracle Division, for that matter. It is for the best that we . . . shake things up. For good,”_

Addi decided not to press any of her questions yet. The person on the other end of the line seemed rather preoccupied.

_“We are giving you a mission. It is essential that you start immediately,”_

The last of Addi’s good mood evaporated. “Understood,” she said, containing her frustration.

_“At the FBI field office in Sacramento, an investigation is being undertaken to an unacceptable end. Efforts to derail it have failed.”_

“What’s being investigated?”

There was a pause, during which Addi became certain that she was asking questions the other person did not know the answers to. She wondered if the superiors had superiors.

 _“That is not of your concern,”_ was the eventual reply. _“All you need to know is that drastic action is required. Something that will put all investigations on hold while the case in question is altered to reflect more suitable facts.”_

Something was knotting in the pit of Addi’s stomach.

_“An assassination,”_

“Who?” she managed.

_“Start with the Special Agent-in-Charge. The Senior Special Agent leading the investigation may also be necessary if she continues to pursue this. You are expected in Sacramento immediately,”_

The only thing able to permeate Addi’s numb mind was the thought that this flight would be a muscle-cramping six hours long. It was only eight in the morning, so plenty of time to get there. 

She would be thankful for that, but really it depended on whose perspective it was considered from.

 

 **Gravity Falls, Oregon (USA)** ∆

Ford sighed and dumped his bags in his living room. Over two weeks away, and the only thing different about the place was the fine layer of dust covering everything.

Although . . .

Perhaps it was just the strangeness of actually being at home. Yes, it must be. It was bordering on superstitious to think that abiotic surroundings could be imbibed with emotional qualities.

Nevertheless . . .

It did seem to be missing a certain vibrancy he had become accustomed to of late. He surely had not felt this alone when he had left Gravity Falls.

He was torn from his thoughts by the sound of the basement door opening.

“Welcome back, smart guy!” Bill grinned, spreading his arms grandly as he walked into the living room.

“Bill,” Ford greeted, shoving away thoughts about how alike the smile of the man in front of him was to the one he had seen in last night’s dream.

“Got everything we need, I see. Alright Sixer, let’s get to work!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so going into a bit more detail with the time jump, from the moment we first switched to Addi's perspective in this chapter, the waiting time for Stan's flight had already elapsed. When we get to Ford's perspective right at the end, it's like we're going back in time a day to see what happened when Stan and Ford parted ways. The next chapter is going to be entirely focused on Ford and what went on with him since we know about what's happened with the others. We should resume in Chapter 9 all in sync. :)
> 
> Stan: Going home!  
> Fidds: Going home!  
> Addi: Going ho- wait no. Fuckin assassination
> 
> Jheselbraum the Spy Mum: more coming soon.
> 
> Farewell, mullet. You were a good and constant friend.  
> (I promise the haircut was necessary)
> 
> Spy trope no. 47: searching through stuff  
> Spy trope no. 48: a meeting about the bad guys where the general conclusion is "we don't know"  
> Spy trope no. 49: an assassination order


	8. Two Days Detached

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here! Have a chapter entirely about Ford!

**Gravity Falls, Oregon (USA)**     ∆

Ford groaned as he straightened up. How long had he been hunched over this desk for?

 _Too long,_ he reflected, scanning through the work he had completed.

He made his way towards the elevator, intent on getting himself some food before proceeding to the next step. The doors opened before he could reach them, revealing Bill.

“Okay, smart guy, let’s see these plans,” he said, strolling out. Ford turned around and led the way back to the schematics he had been redrawing.

“We – uh – _I_ altered the gun’s design in Russia, so there should be less chance of it malfunctioning during use now. I just finished making the final copy, so all that’s left is to start constructing it,”

Bill straightened up from pouring over the plans and clapped him on the back. “I knew you could do it, Sixer! A few problematic hangers-on aren’t enough to slow you down!”

“Right.” Ford said, deciding to move past that comment as quickly as possible.  “I think I should start putting together microcomputer first.”

Bill nodded, moving around the desk so he could scrutinise the plans more. “Use the precision instrument from China. Calibrate it to, oh, a working range of eight hundred nanometres to two centimetres. Lock it in position five for the circuit board, but position six should do for the rest.”

Ford was taken aback at the sudden rattling off of instructions. “You’ve used one before, then?”

Bill laughed. “Of course not Fordsy, I just know my stuff. Good thing I’m around, huh? Not to say that _you_ don’t know what you’re doing, but, well . . .” he shrugged amiably.

“It’s good to pool knowledge,” Ford finished, choosing to think optimistically rather than be offended.

“Whenever you need me, pal! I’ve got things to do upstairs; you don’t mind if I take over the place for a bit while you’re not using it, right? Catch ya later,”

Ford did not like to criticise Bill: he had, after all, given him the opportunity to prove the full extent of his abilities to the world, if not in quite the way Ford had anticipated while growing up. For this reason, Bill was more like a friend than a boss, a sentiment that Bill had stated when Ford first met him, and which he had kept reinforcing through the years. However, it did irk him slightly that his residency was also morphing into Bill’s base of operations. On the other hand, it was also rather gratifying to see how much Bill trusted him. As far as he knew, no other agents were overseen as much as himself.

_Monitored as much as myself._

. . . it _was_ difficult to deny how freeing the weeks away had been. Perhaps he would like a little more breathing room. 

That would no doubt occur once he finished the memory gun. Bill just wanted it complete, and then work would resume more like how scientists usually worked: in a less-than-imposing manner. Such as how he and Fiddleford had collaborated.

Speaking of Fiddleford, Ford was sure he would have loved this part.

He set up the machine on the desk, turned it on, and watched it knit together a circuit board with liquid fluidity.

 

∆

Bill swiped a squeezy toy from a couch as he passed. Making his way to the kitchen, he leaned back in a chair and put his feet on the tabletop. Then he took out his phone, tossing the toy up in the air.

“Ivan! I want an update. One that doesn’t ruin the good day I’m having,”

 _“McCorkle just had a meeting. I recall that Pines encountered two of Jheselbraum’s agents in Oklahoma . . .”_ The voice became more reluctant, as if the owner wished it wasn’t him that was bearing this news. _“She was meeting one of them. You were right sir, Oracle Division is definitely involved.”_

“Hmm. Well, good thing I was expecting that, or this would be _really_ unpleasant for you.” Bill stood up and began walking around, tossing the toy from hand to hand, the phone jammed between his shoulder and ear.

“It’s time to shut Oracle Division down. Don’t blow your cover, Jhezzy’s pup’ll be outta your non-existent hair soon enough. Bigger problems to worry about, et cetera,”

_"As you say, sir. I should also mention that Stanley Pines has reappeared,”_

“Leave him. He’s out of the game now, or close enough. Besides, he just wouldn’t _die_. Four rounds of one-sided Russian poker and he’s still around – he’s like a roach! Whose underpants are stitched from luck! Maybe I’ll make him a job offer one day,” Bill mused, bouncing the toy off the wall.

_“Yes sir. And what about the other Pines?”_

“On track, finally. How long does it take to get some materials for cryin’ out loud? No need to come out here. But be on standby, just in case. Our resident genius is wising up.” The ball thudded into the wall again, but Bill didn’t catch it. He walked away, leaving it to ricochet behind him, where it cracked a glass frame and popped.

 

∆

Ford’s eyes were burning. He hadn’t blinked in a while. That was it.

 _Ow_. Blinking hurt too.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, keeping his eyes closed. His fingers were trembling.

This was ridiculous. He had not even been working for that long! Granted, affixing the circuit boards to the hard drive of the microcomputer was slightly harder than he had anticipated, _but he was getting there._ And arranging the trigger mechanism had been frustrating. And positioning the internal reflective mirrors was an ordeal, to say the least. But all in all, he had about a third of the gun constructed (if he counted the tiny wires which he had laid out over the blueprints in preparation for their insertion), and it was only –

What time was it?

Ford opened his watery eyes and tried to make sense of the clock on the wall.

_One o’clock? That can’t be right, I got home at one-thirty._

_. . . I should really change that display to show twenty-four-hour time._

As he moved back towards the elevator room to find a chair, he realised that standing very still while bent over a table for six hours was not a great decision on his part. Every inch of him ached, even the parts that were not involved in keeping him upright. Sitting _burned_.

Midway through Ford’s groan, Bill came through the elevator, muttering.

“Those Oracle superiors better be awake . . .” He noticed Ford awkwardly slumped in a swivel chair. “Taking a break already, are we? It’s only been, what-”

“Eleven and a half hours,” Ford croaked.

“Come on, you’ve done longer than that at university!” Bill grinned, striding over to stand in front of him.

“Probably.” He yawned. “Just give me a minute.” A thought struck him. “Did you say Oracle? Like that Oracle Division you mentioned a couple weeks ago?”

Bill stiffened slightly, then shrugged.

“Yeah, they’re causing some trouble that I’ve gotta put a stop to. Banging on about the ‘Cipher Conspiracy’ again. Don’t ya just hate it when people won’t listen? Anyway, they won’t be a problem for much longer. That whole shebang is coming down _pronto_.” A momentary dark flicker crossed his expression. “I got a special gal who’ll be taking the fall, and when she does, so will the rest of those cage-rattling do-gooders.” He clapped his hands suddenly. “So! You gonna get back to work then, or do I have to find another genius?”

Ford chuckled and Bill laughed, but made no move to leave, and kept staring at Ford expectantly. The amusement fizzled out of the air. Ford suddenly wondered if it had ever been there.

“Well, I was thinking I could get back to it tomo- later this morning,”

“Come on, Sixer, we’re so close! Don’t tell me you traversed the globe for this, only to give up now?”

“I don’t think it would be giving up-”

“No? Sure looks like it,”

Ford stared at Bill, floored. Bill’s expression was the same as always: friendly, encouraging, betraying none of his thoughts.

Slowly, he stood up. He walked back to the desk where the almost one-third of a gun was.

“I knew I could rely on you, buddy!” Bill praised (or perhaps crowed) from behind him. “You’ve got some _insane_ dedication, I think it’s safe to say, which means that device should be raring to go in no time! Got it? This is your ticket to the stars, and my ticket to the throne. It’s going to be _great_. You’re doing me a huge favour, you know that? You’re one of a kind, Fordsy, one of a kind. Don’t prove me wrong! That head of yours has to be good for something, haha, you know I’m joking. Catch ya later! I reckon you’ll be about half done by then, whaddaya think?”

 

∆

One third complete. _Fully_ complete, not almost complete. Ford did not consider it a victory. He did not spend too long thinking about why. There was nothing to be gained from that, anyway. Nothing that could be considered important _right now_ , per se. Nothing that, while worthwhile to consider, could probably just be attributed to the stresses of directing an agency. Nothing that could not be overlooked in favour of the . . . probably overall good that would come of the invention. Nothing that –

Ford sighed. He had been staring uselessly at the wall for five minutes now.

It would be better to throw himself into the work, he considered.

 

∆

_~~God I’m tired.~~ _

_I_ _need to try harder._

_Bill is right, we have waited far too long for this device’s construction, and I need to complete it, ~~although he could be more helpful. He has already shown how adept he is with the machines~~. There’ll be plenty of time for rest afterwards. What is a few hours’ sleep deprivation in the face of an invention that could change the world? This is a personal challenge that I am **entirely willing** to accept._

_I have reluctantly allowed myself a five-minute break to write an entry in this journal. It is this, or fall face-down, unconscious, onto my desk. I am determined that, after two weeks of often having to share a room with ~~Stanley~~ **S** ~~who cares?~~ that the next time I sleep, it will be ~~snorelessly **.** Is that a word?~~ silently._

_His snoring was strangely reassuring, however. It certainly made things seem less alone, cold, and dark. Or perhaps that’s just what the basement is like all the time._

_I may need to head upstairs for a meal soon. I have not eaten since breakfast with Stan yesterday. Stan was a good cook. ~~He made pancakes. Stan made pancakes. Stancakes.~~ I think it may have been inadvisable to become so reliant on him for food. _

 

 

∆

 _But what did he_ mean? Ford unwillingly wondered for the umpteenth time. It was happening every few minutes now, as he impatiently waited for the precision machine to complete another task.

Bill said odd things every now and then. It was just something Ford had learned to live with. Why was he noticing it now?

The answer was obvious.

But then again, no, it was not. Ford might occasionally become irritated with some of his boss’s mannerisms (arrogance), or his way of working (uncommonly close-at-hand), however he had never before felt as uneasy as he did now. He had always had the idea in his mind that while Bill might be his employer, he afforded Ford the same amount of respect he received. That idea was diminishing.

Simple answer.

But was it?

Yes.

_I’m noticing it now because I’ve seen what it’s like to be without it._

 

∆

_My mind keeps returning to our goodbye. Stan said to make sure that I did not get too caught up in my work. More occasions than the present one apply to this statement: for instance, once in primary school I became completely engrossed in a science project. It was a volcano with real lava, all contained on a miniature island. When I was unable to test it properly on the day it was due, I found myself having a panic attack. ~~Now, the entire affair seems inconsequential, especially with the threats **problems** I face in the present.~~ It mattered a significant amount at the time, though, and fortunately Stan knew me far better than I knew my project. He was able to calm me down, and the next thing I knew, the presentation went off without a hitch. _

_I miss him. And his Stancakes._

_I meant what I said when I saw him off at the airport: I was going to come see him when I finished the project._

_All the more reason to finish it soon, then._

 

∆

Ford took the clock off the wall. It was distracting, not to mention discouraging.

 

∆

The machine was obviously not accustomed to being handled manually: it had made the circuit boards on its own far easier than it let Ford use it to arrange the delicate piece of filament at the end of the gun.

He could feel Bill watching over his shoulder every step of the way. It was like at any moment he was going to snatch control for himself. The tremor had moved to Ford’s stomach now, leaving his hands feeling slow and heavy. Tiny pinpricks of sweat were forming on his forehead, nose, eyes. His glasses were about to give way and fall straight onto the gun, effectively smashing to pieces all his hard work. The microscope lens Ford’s face was glued to in order to see what he was doing would not stand a chance at stopping it. The glasses would fall, and everything was doomed. He might as well accept it now. No. That would be giving up. _He did not give up._ Bill was unmoving. The damn machine was not tilting properly. The filament would undoubtedly be lost forever in the ensuing chaos brought on by Ford’s crappy eyesight. He had not breathed in for a while. His stomach was lurching now.

In a fit of desperation and frustration, he jerked the controls roughly forward.

Miraculously, the filament slid exactly into place.

“HAH!” Ford shouted – or tried to. There was no air in his lungs for that to happen.

He heaved in a huge breath, straightening up as he did so. His glasses fell forwards and made a gentle tap on the lens of the microscope. Ford laughed hysterically. Bill made no comment. He just stood to the side, silent and watchful.

“Four fifths of the way done!” Ford said cheerfully, turning to him. To empty space.

Bill had left hours ago.

The elevator rumbled down, grating on Ford’s nerves, depriving him of a momentary relief.

Bill caught sight of him and laughed briefly. “Well I can tell you’ve been working! Never seen anyone so tired they put their glasses on the wrong seeing-hole.” He gestured to the machine, which Ford’s glasses were comically hanging off.

“Ah! Yes,” Ford said brightly, jamming them back on his face.

“Almost done I see.” Bill said, looking hungrily at the almost-complete gun. “Let’s get that last stretch over with, pal! I gotta tell you, I am _longing_ for a chance to try it out. You know, you should be proud. It was _you_ who brought all this into being.” Bill swirled an upright finger around to encompass the general vicinity.

“I appreciate it,” Ford said, banging a hand down onto the table to emphasise his statement. The gun jumped half a foot into the air, making a loud _clunk_ as it fell. Ford laughed again when it did not break. The thing was invincible!

“Good to see you’re finally gaining a sense of humour,” grinned Bill.

“Who are you going to test this on? Not me, I hope,” said Ford grinning equally wide. Everything seemed very hearty at the moment. He remembered this feeling – first from university, and now every so often from the five years he had been working with Bill.

“Oh no, Fordsy, you’re my number one! There _have_ been a few pains in the neck hanging around though. I’m sure I can think of someone,”

Ford nodded in agreement. Bill _was_ good at thinking.

“Anyway, time to make that bulb! _You’ve_ got some shimmern to melt down and some specific heat calculations to redo. You see that there? You forgot the indices.” He pointed casually at a sheet of working paper.

Ford managed an acknowledgement through tightly grit teeth and a strained smile. It was becoming painful, actually. How did Bill keep it up all the time?

 

∆

There had been stabbing pains in his stomach a few hours ago. He only remembered them when he reached precisely twenty-four hours without food.

Coffee counted as food, Ford decided, heating up the kettle.

The kitchen was _really_ bright and his eyes did not want to adjust. He squinted into the –

He glanced at the clock.

\-  eight AM light rebelliously.

Coffee in mouth.

_HOT._

His legs felt really tired. He was fine, but his legs ached. So did his back. And arm muscles. And fingers. Taking a moment to sit down might be advisable.

Ooooohhh it was.

It was rather peaceful up here. Very quiet. Cool. The makeshift forge was making the basement incredibly hot, so until it was at the temperature it needed to be to melt shimmern, he would wait up here.

He should stretch out his neck more. A few cricks, but nothing too painful. It felt especially pleasant when he rolled his head forwards. Quite heavy, too. Maybe he would just lie on the table like this for a moment. Wait for the coffee to cool down. Wait for the forge to heat up . . .

_Where are they?_

There was blood everywhere, but no one in the chairs. No one in the room. A light was growing – a bright blue-white light. Not emanating from anywhere in particular. Just growing. 

Someone shouted his name.

_Fiddleford._

Was not with him. He must have found them. Ford turned to go.

There they were. All three of them. Standing just beyond the threshold of the door. They stared at him expressionlessly. Addi and Stan had bloodstains on their clothes. The ever-increasing light threw the colours into sharp relief. Everything trembled around the edges as though it was about to explode. Stan’s left hand was being held by someone he could not see. Fiddleford was looking at a photograph.

_Where did you go?_

"You were the one who left," said Addi.

A hum he had not noticed rose to a peak. He started forwards, needing to let her know he hadn’t, he was right here, he was going to see Stan so soon, he was going to ask Fiddleford to help on his next project, he was going to kiss her for real one day, he just needed some time, just a little –

A bulb exploded. Sparks. Silence. Dark.

Dark.

Dark.

Laughing next to his ear.

He jerked upright, lashing out beside him, eyes wide despite the glaring light, but he was alone.

Ford gasped for breath. How long had he been asleep for? Sleeping was – was not good. He scrubbed his face with his hands and downed the cold coffee with a shudder. Better than nothing.

Looking at the clock, he saw it had only been ten minutes. Plenty of time. He had plenty of time. He was not even _on_ a time limit. _That_ was how much time he had.

 

∆

When shimmern melted, it glowed a bright yellow-white and radiated incredible heat. Ford had to wear goggles and gloves just so he could stand to be near it, and even then he was sweltering.

The lovely tear-shaped pendant gave him one last sparkle before it liquified completely. A flash of a playful grin danced in front of him, the memory of an immense wind determined to drive him back briefly hijacking his senses.

“So much for returning it,” Ford muttered.

“Oops, might’ve forgotten to mention that we needed to use all of it,” shrugged Bill from the other side of the glowing material. “Ah, memories, memories.” Before he sauntered away, he gave Ford a look that was all too piercing.

 _Then again_ , a voice in his head weakly protested, _everything looks hazy over here. You might be seeing things._

Ford snorted. “I really need to talk to someone that I actually _want_ around,” he informed the blazing liquid. 

He grabbed the last machine from China and started to shape molten shimmern, steadfastly ignoring an image in his mind’s eye of Adeline smiling as he had tried to dismantle the very same device he was using.

 

∆

“Y’know Ivan, he’s really come through,” said Bill, raiding the fridge. “I thought for a while he was going to pull some _crazy stunt_ -” he waved his hands around wildly – “but it looks like he held out. Our genius is back on track!”

 _“So the device is complete, then?”_ asked Ivan on the other end of the line.

“It will be. VERY soon. Ol’ Six-Fingers can be amazing if he’s pushed. So anyway, just calling to let ya know I don’t need you to, ah, how to put this delicately,” he swiped a hand across his neck, miming a beheading, “ _murder him painfully_. I mean, I haven’t exactly been keeping everything under wraps lately, but like I said, no crazy stunts, ‘You betrayed me!’, yadda yadda yadda.”

_“Very convenient, sir. Is there any word on your solution for the situation over here?”_

“Oh, yeah, our very own Agent Marks should be touching down right . . . about . . .” Bill checked his watch theatrically, “now. Once she’s blown off a head or two, you rush to her place having heroically tracked her down with your fantastic FBI training and arrest her. Events, cover-ups revealed, bing, bang, boom, Oracle Division topples like dominoes. And then I’m free to put that memory gun to some use.”

 

∆

“Sixer!” No answer. Bill frowned and walked back downstairs. “Weren't you . . . hey, Sixer!” Again, no answer.

Bill moved decisively towards the basement entrance.

“ _Well_ , well, _well_ , well, well. My memory gun finished yet?” Silence. The entire basement was still. All the lights were off, like they were no longer needed.

“Pines . . .” Bill growled. Not taking his eyes off the dark space ahead, he took out his phone and pressed and selected a contact to call. No answering phone rang, apart from on the other end of the line.

 

∆

Ford fumbled one-handed with the phone, managing to answer while keeping a set of bloodshot eyes on the road.

“Bill! Yes, I’m here,”

_“No, y’see Sixer, that’s the problem. You really AREN’T,”_

“The memory gun’s finished. It’s on the worktable. Do you need something? I’m a little preoccupied right now.” Should he be talking to his employer so disrespectfully? Welp, too late now.

He careened around a bend in a move he felt his brother would have been proud of.

_“You’re testing my patience, Fordsy. I’m sure I don’t have to phrase my question, since it should be OBVIOUS,”_

“I didn’t tell you? I swore I did.” Ford said, genuinely surprised. After a second’s reflection, he reconsidered his position. “Oh. No, I only _thought_ about telling you. That was probably when I got into the car,”

He revved the El Diablo’s engine enthusiastically.

“I’m going to visit Stan,” he informed Bill lightly, speeding past the “Welcome to Gravity Falls” sign so fast it was a blur.

 _“Why,”_ stated Bill coldly, in a way which was very emphatically not a question.

“Because I said I would!” Shrugged Ford happily. “I like being around him. I _don’t_ like being cut-off and alone. I think the Cipher Wheel could benefit from a new point of view! Also, I need to return his car.”

He might regret saying most of those things later. He did not at the present moment, however, which was the important thing. It really was amazing what thirty-two hours without sleep could do for an individual’s self-confidence. In fact, this had been nothing; he felt like he could continue without sleep for _days_ more.

_“This is a little off-the-rails for you, you gotta admit. Pretty unexpected. A bit of a crazy stunt, you might say,”_

“I suppose so. I think I’m overdue, to be honest. I will see you in a few days, sir!” 

_“Oh, you never know. Anything could happen. For instance, I bet you’re going to receive one heck of a welcome in Sacramento!”_

“I’d settle for anything at this point!”

They both laughed. And kept laughing. And laughed some more. Ford ran out of breath first.

_“I suppose you gotta make a stand at some point, Stanford! Might wanna scout out the turf beforehand, though. Seeya, kid!”_

 

∆

“Ivan! You remember what I said about painfully murdering Pines? Yeah, let’s do that. He’s headed your way, and I wouldn’t miss him if I were you. In fact, same goes for anyone who gets in your way. We’ve got the means to deal with the fallout now,”

The memory gun glinted as Bill turned it over in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In his sleep deprivation, Ford's survival instincts have deserted him. (I don't know if that's in actual canon but I feel like it could be.)
> 
> Bill wasn't being that secretive and careful around Ford in this chapter because he's pretty much got what he wants, and he KNOWS Ford's edging more into liability territory (more on that later), so he figures, what the heck? It's gotta happen sometime.
> 
> So much insane laughter in this one, jeez.
> 
> Spy trope no. 50: working hard in an operations base  
> Spy trope no. 51: the Hero Man is Alone  
> Spy trope no. 52: disobeying orders to do The Right Thing


	9. Several Soft Moments in the City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the calm before the storm.
> 
> You know, I just realised (halfway through writing this chapter) that Ivan is like over ten years younger than Stan and Ford in canon. GODDAMMIT HE SHOULD BE A KID IN THIS. why

**Palo Alto, California (USA)**     ∆

Fiddleford’s entire general bodily area ached, but if he was giving out prizes, his ass would go home with them all.

 _No travel for at least four days_ , he decided, walking towards the front door in a way vaguely reminiscent of a person without any leg joints.

He knocked, the door opened, and yellow light that blazed with warmth hit him in the face. It was a mixture of sunlight and the house’s own electric power, and it was dazzling. A smile broke out on his face as he looked through it, eyes coming to rest on a sight that was both blessed and poignant.

Tate waved at him from under a fringe of hair, grinning a big, gap-toothed smile.

“Hi Dad!”

With that, Fiddleford practically bounded over the threshold to scoop up his son.

“Tate! My Lord you’ve grown! You’re gettin’ heavy, buddy!”

“Yeah! Look, we wrote it on the wall!” He pointed to the entrance of the living room, where a series of lines depicted Tate’s progress upwards.

“And we took lotsa photos so ya could watch us do it! Didja get them? Didja get them?” The four-year-old asked eagerly.

Fiddleford looked closer at the date the latest mark had been made on. It was yesterday’s.

“Your ma was probably goin’ to wait for me to get home so we could look at them all together,”

Tate nodded ferociously in agreement, his fringe flopping around. “That’s what Mom said,”

Fiddleford laughed, feeling everything disappear except this moment, right here. “We should go look fer her, what do ya say?”

“She said I’mma distacktion,”

“Distraction?” repeated Fiddleford, confused.

“Yeah!”

And that’s when the Nyarf dart nailed him in the forehead.

“GOTCHA!”

Tate shrieked with laughter, rolling around as best he could in Fiddleford’s arms. Fiddleford stared at the holder of the toy gun, who spun it around expertly on her finger and holstered it. There was no actual holster for it go though, so it clattered to the floor. This did nothing to wipe the victorious expression from Madeline’s face.

“I don’t know if ya should be in the field if ya can be taken out that easily, Mr McGucket. Shot by a decommissioned agent of all things!” she said in mock serious tones, her eyes radiating happiness.

“‘Decommissioned’ means nothin’ if y’re one of the best in the world.” Replied Fiddleford, moving forwards like he couldn’t stop himself. “And as for being out in the field . . . well, this is much more appealin’,”

Madeline beamed and didn’t wait for him any longer. Fiddleford hadn’t even noticed how taut he’d been until it all melted away in his wife’s kiss.

They broke apart only when Tate, still in his father’s arms, let out an “ew” that they both chuckled at.

Madeline grinned impishly, settling her arms around his torso. “Ah’ve got a treat for ya tonight,”

“Do ya really?” Fiddleford grinned back.

“Mmhm. How does-” she winked roguishly – “sittin’ on the couch doin’ nothing sound?” Then she elegantly plucking the dart off Fiddleford’s forehead.

He sighed longingly. A night in with the two people in the world who meant more to him than he could hope to describe? “Like heaven, Maddie,” he said, truth ringing through every word.

 

 **Sacramento, California (USA)** ∆

 “Where are we going?” asked Carla as she and Stan walked out of the FBI field office hand-in-hand.

“I’m gonna take you to dinner.” Stan said firmly. “At a nice place, too, not Checkers Pizza like we always do on Tuesdays.”

“Wow. Who are you and what have you done with Stan Pines?” Carla joked, and he was pleased to see that he’d impressed her. “You show up after two weeks overseas doing some shady stuff with your brother, which we will _definitely_ be talking about later by the way, and you have your hair cut, new clothes, and you want to unnecessarily spend money. What’s brought this on?”

Stan shrugged nonchalantly. “The clothes might be Ford’s. We don’t really know anymore,” he admitted. In fact, he’d bought them yesterday in Chicago, but telling her that might lead him to talk about certain other things, and that would ruin the surprise.

“You didn’t answer my question,” said Carla slyly.

“What, can’t a guy do something nice for his girl?” he replied innocently, sliding his hands around her waist.

“And now you’re trying to seduce me,” Carla observed, putting her own around his neck.

“Is it working?”

“Come a little closer and find out . . .”

She pulled away before he got the chance, unfortunately.

“Where’s my baby?”

“Er . . .”

“You didn’t lose the Stanmobile again, did you?” Carla said, narrowing her eyes.

“No, no!” he said, quickly catching up. “I left it at Ford’s. He said he’ll get someone to drop it off soon,”

“That is a 1965 El Diablo convertible Stan! We can’t let some crazy person drive her around like a lunatic!”

“Carla, I’m sure it’s fine. It’s survived worse than loony driving, trust me. That’s pretty much a normal day for it,”

She frowned at him.

“Weren’t we about to go to dinner?” He said hurriedly.

Carla checked her watch. “Well, I assume we’re walking, so sure. It’ll actually _be_ dinner time by the time we get there,” she said, shrugging contentedly.

 

∆

Looking through the Journal while driving at high speed down a city street may not have been advisable, but Ford was doing it anyway. He’d made it to Sacramento in record time, and he was very proud of himself. That was what all the jitteriness meant. Although, it also kept him awake. He had discovered that sitting still was not an option after a near-collision with a road sign a few hours ago.

It was now four o’clock in the afternoon, and all he needed was his brother’s address. He flipped through the pages trying to find it, leaning the book on the steering wheel and glancing up occasionally to make sure he was not going to hit anything.

To be honest, he was getting more tired by the second. By the time he made it to Stan and Carla’s apartment he might be more interested in a pillow than anything else.

 

∆

Addi made it to the apartment she was staying in. She dumped her bag on the floor. She saw a schedule stuck to the fridge. She looked around the bedroom.

Her stomach dropped at the sight of a sniper rifle on the bed. She stood at the foot of it and stared.

How was this happening? She’d never done something like this before. Well, things happened on missions, unavoidable things, in situations that weren’t good to begin with. So yes, she’d pulled the trigger on her gun while someone else was at the other end of the barrel, meaning to make it so that they wouldn’t ever get back up again. She’d made her peace with that, as best she could. Those had all been circumstances where her life had been equally threatened.

 _This_ was different.

There was something much worse about intending to kill someone who wasn’t expecting it, or braced for it, or whatever the understanding was during a fight.

She wasn’t an assassin, she never had been, and she couldn’t understand why she was suddenly being assigned a mission as though she was.

If that in itself wasn’t strange enough, there was also the whole manner in which this had been dumped on her.

 _All_ missions came through Jheselbraum. She was the one who either signed off on them or passed them on to another agency if something related to the Cipher Wheel came up.

So why was Addi suddenly being given a mission straight from the superiors?

Jheselbraum _must_ know about it.

Didn't she?

The superiors would inform her.

Wouldn’t they?

Of course.

Adeline stared at the gun on the bed. It sat there cryptically.

_I don’t know if I can do this._

 

 

∆

Ivan stepped up to the apartment building. Bill had said this morning that Pines was on his way, which meant he must be in Sacramento by now. The only people he was connected to were his brother, and, by extension, Carla McCorkle, meaning that he would most likely show up at their apartment sooner or later. If the other two showed up too, well, Bill hadn’t told him to get rid of anyone in his way for nothing.

He made his way to the lone desk in the foyer, where a buzzer bore a sign welcoming him to press it for assistance. He did so. He needed to find McCorkle’s room number somehow.

He heard with disinterest the door sliding open behind him and a new person approaching. They also made their way to the desk.

This was annoying. How long was he going to have to wait for the receptionist? Surely they would have put a sign up saying whether they were on break –

The person knocked into Ivan, pushing him forwards into the desk.

“Oh, sorry, I thought you were further away,”

 _Oh, did you now?_ Ivan turned to irritably give the newcomer a thorough dressing-down, when the voice registered with him, its owner’s identity confirmed half a second later when he saw his face. Stanford Pines.

A very tired-looking Stanford Pines. That was fine with him. Tired people made mistakes more easily.

Most _tired people_ , Ivan corrected soon after.

Pines must have felt the shape of the gun in Ivan’s jacket when he bumped into him. Judging by his face, he knew exactly what it was, but he wasn’t entirely on the defensive yet.

His eyes flicked to the “X” scarred over Ivan’s right eye. It had an uncanny resemblance to a certain Cipher Wheel symbol.

“Blind Eye,” he breathed.

“Six Fingers,” acknowledged Ivan. Then he drew his gun.

Pines twisted it out of his grip. It went clattering to the floor. Ivan drew back his fist to knock the wind out of Pines, but a foot was already kicking his legs out from under him. He crashed to the floor, smashing his nose on his own forearm.

Rapidly retreating footsteps signalled Pines was moving away. Ivan wiped blood from his face and followed.

 

∆

Addi adjusted the strap of the bag over her shoulder, feeling the weight of the rifle pressing into her back. The Special Agent-in-Charge of the Sacramento field office was meeting someone in the business district today, so that’s where she was headed. She stopped walking when she could see the target building in her line of sight, looking around.

After some consideration, she entered the lobby of a lawyer’s firm, heading for the twenty-third floor with a few friendly smiles and a “no thank you, I know where I’m going”. The Special Agent-in-Charge would be on the same floor, approximately two hundred and fifty metres away, meeting someone in a lovely office with a wide, wide window.

She suppressed a shiver.

 

∆

Ford’s chest was hurting. Not for any particular reason that he could discern. It just _was_.

He swung around a corner at speed, dodging a pedestrian.

He could not be having a heart attack, that was ridiculous. He was twenty-eight! He was healthy! He . . . had not slept for about thirty-five hours. He had been working non-stop for most of them.

Everything felt like it was pressing down on him: the air, the buildings stretching above, the clouds in the sky, the atmosphere itself. No matter how much he willed his legs to move, he was not able to run any faster – or keep it up indefinitely.

_Focus._

He chanced a glance over his shoulder. The man was catching up, and it looked like he had retrieved his gun. Ford’s first thought was that he would not fire out in the open where civilians could be hurt, but then, he had also thought an agent of Bill Cipher would not attack him. 

Priority: not to let anyone else get hurt. That would also keep the police away, hopefully. He could do this.

He slid over a car bonnet to reach a disused one-way road winding between two brick buildings. Ten metres later, a thump told him Blind Eye had done the same.

His legs were slowly turning to jelly.

 

∆

_Whirrr whirrrr._

The silencer was screwed on.

_Snap. Clack._

The rifle was loaded.

“It’s just orders, it’s just orders,” Addi whispered to herself quietly, looking through the scope. She was in someone’s tiny office, lying flat on her stomach, looking through the open window. The floor was closed for renovations, and all the workers were at the other side of the building, so no one was going to interrupt.

The window was facing away from the main road, and her view of the target building was partially obscured by another plain, brick structure. It didn’t matter. She could still see the window she needed clearly.

The scope worked perfectly. As soon as the door opened and the Special Agent-in-Charge entered, she could pull the trigger.

No matter how many things she thought of that could go wrong, none did. There was no reason for her _not_ to complete her mission.

The office’s occupant opened the door and welcomed in the person she was supposed to kill.

 

∆

That was it. He could not keep running, he needed to rest.

Only one of those things was going to happen.

Ford skidded to stop and whipped out an arm directly to his side.

Blind Eye, who had been gaining, cannoned straight into it. He landed on his back, but Ford did not take the opportunity to make him stay there. His brain was wailing at him that his arm _really_ hurt: one of the many things he’d be regretting tomorrow.

“Shut up,” he hissed.

Blind Eye coughed and got to his feet.

 

∆

The little black cross she could see through the scope was fixed on the man’s forehead. It followed him as he sat down comfortably in a chair, probably to discuss routes around a problem. Or perhaps he was catching up with a friend. Or perhaps he was asking for advice. Or giving it . . .

“It’s just orders,” she repeated. Orders that came from the people she worked for, if rather distantly.

She readjusted her hold on the gun, sweaty fingers betraying her.

_Pull it together. It’s the right thing to do._

But was it? Everything about this screamed _wrong_ to her. 

She could feel her heartbeat thumping against the floor, each beat reminding her of how vulnerable she was, how fragile she could be, how easy it was to be hurt. How similar she was to him.

The man in there. She didn’t even know his name.

It wouldn’t be personal.

_Wrong._

The breeze from the window did nothing to cool her overheating body.

He was a living, breathing organism, two hundred and thirty-eight metres away from instant death. What was he feeling? Did he worry about dying? What did he have to live for? Did he try to be a good person? Would it affect her actions if he wasn’t? She knew in his mind there were messages, silver thoughts being sent infinitely fast through synapse to synapse, racing to their destination as though they knew they could run out of time at any moment. Lungs took in oxygen steadily, renewing his body from second to second. His heart beat in his chest, his blood filtered through his arteries, his eyes registered patterns of light and everything about him cried out that _he was trying to live._

She was going to shut all that off. Without even giving him a chance to fight back.

She – she just couldn’t.

She was thinking too much. She should just get it over with. She’d go back to Manhattan, greet Fiddleford with bloody hands. She’d meet with Jheselbraum and announce mission success, and the reply would be . . .

What mission?

_Because Jheselbraum doesn’t know._

 

 

∆

Blind Eye caught Ford a ringing blow to the side of the head. He staggered, managed to stay on his feet, and dodged the next one.

“What are you doing?!” he yelled. “We both work for Bill! We’re on the same side!”

“You are the _only_ person who thinks that, Pines!”

_How does he know my name? Cipher Wheel operatives work alone!_

 

 

∆

Addi’s heart stopped, as did everything around her. A dust mote settled on her finger. She hadn’t allowed herself to think about this in-depth until it really mattered. The shock of thinking about what she had to do had overwhelmed her.

There had been no other communications since the assignment. No instructions other than a gun on a bed and a printed schedule of the target’s day on the fridge, as if she was being distanced from the people who gave the orders. No more word from the superiors. No acknowledgement from Jheselbraum. She had been completely alone ever since leaving home. Like someone was bracing for impact, flinching back, making her take the brunt of the force.

Furthermore, this wasn’t the sort of mission Oracle Division undertook. No matter if an assignment was related to the Cipher Wheel, it never, ever came with zero explanation from Jheselbraum.

That was why she had joined Oracle Division. Because she trusted Jheselbraum to be as transparent as possible with her.

Addi’s numb fingers fumbled to lock on the safety, tearing her gaze away from the scope as though the very act of looking was incriminating.

Someone was targeting Oracle Division, using her to do it. She was being set up.

After a moment of staring at nothing, trying to keep calm and decide what to do, she faded back into focus, staring at a single spot through the window.

Wait a minute.

Was that-?

Was that a fight happening down there?

 

∆

Blind Eye managed to redraw his gun, but before it was fully up Ford stamped on his wrist, sending it to the floor again.

The man made a muffled noise of pain through clenched teeth and grabbed Ford’s leg, tilting him off balance. He stumbled into the wall.

 

∆

It was. There was a _fight_ going on in that deserted little street between two buildings.

Addi looked through the scope out of a lack of anything else to do. Her wits were fairly scattered.

One man was bald, and clearly had the upper hand. He was trapped in a lock with another man in a tan coat, who was backed up into a corner of the wall and struggling to keep his windpipe from being crushed by an elbow. Addi winced. She’d been in that position a few times.

This was unreal.

She was looking side-on at the fight, but she couldn’t see the losing man’s face. She adjusted the angle of the gun.

_Holy heck._

 

 

∆

His arms were shaking, about to give out. He couldn’t move either of his legs to kick his attacker away, and his throat was already half closed up. He had nothing. His mind was scrambling to come up with solutions, but panic was setting in and he wasn’t getting enough air, and he was so sore and so tired and dammit he’d just wanted a day off –

_Pock!_

For such a small noise, it retained an immense enough impact to cause both of them to freeze.

A flake of brick tumbled away from the wall, the bullet that had just thudded into it stuck deep inside somewhere.

It had passed _right between their noses._

Possibly because he had the most to lose, Ford recovered first. The pressure Blind Eye had been exerting on his neck vanished. Ford shoved him away and caught him a quick follow-up strike to the stomach. It was clumsy, with no real power behind it. Blind Eye deflected it easily.

He kicked into Ford’s knee. _Hard._

White-hot pain lanced through the joint, taking Ford’s breath away. As soon as it came back, he yelled it out again, collapsing to the ground.

As if that had been the summoning call for another bullet, the pavement at Blind Eye’s feet was riddled with shots.

Ford covered his head with arms and rolled behind a dustbin, praying that it provided enough cover. He saw Blind Eye rocket towards a side-alley. A hail of eerily quiet gunshots followed him, none hitting a mark.

Blind Eye glared at Ford from across the street, gritting his teeth. His hand went for his gun, but it was no longer there. It was lying right next to Ford.

He snatched it up and took aim, but the other man was already gone.

 _Smart move_ , thought Ford, sinking backwards.

 

∆

Addi ran up the street, stopping by the dustbin Ford had disappeared behind. He was still lying there.

“What happened to you?” she half-laughed, staring down at him.

He jumped, raising a gun, then dropped it just as quickly, staring at her in amazement.

“Adeline?”

The sheer elation she felt when he said her name was alarming.

“Yep,”

“You were the sniper?”

“Right again,”

Ford breathed out a long sigh of relief, finally smiling back at her. “Thank you,” he said sincerely.

“Anytime.” Adeline hunkered down next to him, Ford pushing himself up against the bin so he could see her better.

“Is your knee okay?” She went to feel it, but he hurriedly stopped her, catching her hands in his.

“Sprained, I think. Addi, you have no idea how good it is to see you,” he said, looking into her eyes like he didn’t ever want to stop. She thought her heart defibrillated for a moment.

“It’s pretty good to see you too,” she admitted weakly. Ford looked like he needed a hug, and she wanted one too, so she wrapped her arms around him tightly. He held her as well, equally fervent, burying his face in the crook of her shoulder and neck.

“Why do you have a rifle?” he murmured.

“I . . . think someone’s trying to sabotage me,” she said helplessly.

“Oh,” said Ford after a moment. “If it helps, that was one of my fellow agents trying to kill me,”

“Aren’t we having a good day,” sighed Addi.

Ford pulled back from the embrace, looking at her again. “It’s not so bad anymore,” he said, then looked astonished he’d actually spoken out loud.

Just like that, her heart was defibrillating again.

 

∆

Carla didn’t want to walk home. She was slightly tipsy, and full of an amazing meal, and she wanted to spend some time alone with Stan after far too long without him.

She told him this, and he immediately checked them into the first hotel they came to. He was being _very_ indulgent today. He was probably buttering her up for something. Most likely the moment when he had to tell her what he’d been doing these past two weeks.

She found it hard to mind at the moment, revelling in the attention.

“OH!” she exclaimed suddenly, making Stan jump as they settled on a couch. Finally, all this made sense.

“It’s our anniversary!” she beamed. “Kind of. The day I arrested you! Sorry I didn’t realise until now. Here,” she rooted through her bag, chuckling, eventually finding what she was looking for. She handed Stan a small, badly wrapped box. “I got it a couple days ago,”

Stan looked pleased and dug into it. “Aw, thanks Carla.” He pulled out a gold necklace with a medallion on it. “Oh, wow, that’s-”

He squinted inside the box.

“‘Gold Chains for Old Men?’”

_Oh, God._

“Jeez, just start picking out old people’s homes for me, why don’t you?”

Carla buried her face in her hands. “Receipt,” she cursed.

 _Okay, I can fix this._ “I’m sorry, I saw it in passing and didn’t realise what the shop was called until I went inside!”

“And you _still_ bought it?!”

“I’m sorry! I knew you’d like it!” She hesitated. “Happy anniversary?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Stan relented. “You’re right, I do like it.”

He leaned over and kissed her. She enjoyed it for a while, then pulled away and waited expectantly. Stan shifted uncomfortably, as though readying himself for something. Carla’s smile dropped.

“You forgot,” she stated bluntly.

“Well, no, I mean, a little, but I-”

“So tonight really _was_ just about keeping me in a good mood so I wouldn’t start interrogating you?” She couldn’t believe this. Alright, she hadn’t minded earlier, but the wine was wearing off and she’d realised it actually _was_ their anniversary, and maybe she could have tried a bit better with her own gift, but _really_? This was a low blow.

“What? No!” Protested Stan. “No! Jeez, this wasn’t-” he stopped, feeling through a pocket, glancing up at her with a familiar glint in his eye that told her a plan was forming in his mind.

“I do have _something_ on me you might like,”

“Really. What is it, a couple international coins? A used plane ticket?”

“I know, I’m sorry. It’s not that great, you’re right. I promise I’ll make it up to you,” he withdrew his hand, holding her impromptu gift in a closed fist.

“Can I get a timeframe on when?” Carla asked sourly. Stan grinned broadly, as though she had just played right into his hands, which infuriated her. She wasn’t some small-town police officer he could just con his way past! It hadn’t worked before, and it wasn’t working now.

“How about for the rest of my life?” He offered her his open hand. A small diamond ring shone in it.

Carla stared. Stan grinned. She stared some more. He kept grinning. She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to punch it or kiss it off him more.

The cocky expression faltered for a moment. “So . . . I do kinda need an ans-”

He was cut off by Carla leaping onto him to smash their faces together. He made a noise of surprise and closed a hand protectively around the ring so it wouldn’t go flying, then responded enthusiastically.

“ _Yes_ ,” Carla said when they surfaced for air.

“I figured,” Stan nodded, looking dazed.

“What made you want to ask?”

Stan looked awkward. “Er . . . that phone call a week ago. It kind of sounded like, I dunno, you thought I was going to leave and go back to what I was doing-” he gestured vaguely to her, himself, and the surrounding vicinity – “before all this. Like you _weren’t_ as big a part of my life as you are. And I wanted to say that – heh, this is how the proposal was _supposed_ to go.” He got off the couch and knelt in front of her, offering her the ring in his hand again. “I wanted to say, I’m not with you because you work for the FBI and can get me out of tight spaces – I know if I mess up, it’s on me. I’m not going to, to make you _choose_ or drag you down or anything. That’s not fair, and I want you to be happy, and I want to _make_ you happy, and I want you to not have to worry about stuff like that. I . . . want to make _sure_ you know that I’m gonna stick with you. For as long as you let me. Or something.” He coughed awkwardly, twiddling the ring around. “’Cause I love you.” He finished.

Carla let out a shaky breath. “Dammit,”

“What?” asked Stan, looking up worriedly, as if she was going to change her mind.

“Just . . . I was doing so well,” Her voice cracked halfway through and she dissolved into relieved, happy, sobbing laughter, unable to hold back the waterworks any longer. Before she was completely incapable of speaking, she choked out, “As long as I let you? You better be in for the long haul,”

In between hiccups and hugs and kisses, they eventually managed to get the ring on her finger.

 

∆

“I’ve got a bandage and knee brace in my medical kit,” Addi informed Ford as she helped him limp into her apartment.

“Thank you,” Ford said, manoeuvring around the coffee table to sit on the couch. As she collected some ice and the first-aid kit, she saw him stiffen, realise he was sitting with his back to the window, then almost rip off the curtains in his haste to close them on the sunset. At Addi’s raised eyebrow, he said, “Felt like someone was watching,”

She took in the dark circles under his eyes. He had definitely not been sleeping lately.

_Deal with that soon._

“Do you have a secure phone?” he asked suddenly. “Mine’s in need of repair.” He showed her his own badly smashed up device.

“Sure,” she tossed him her own.

“It is secure, isn’t it?”

“Well yeah, it’s mine,”

“Are you _sure_ though?”

“Ford,”

“Sorry. It’s been a very strange couple of days.” He watched the phone suspiciously, then started to dial a number. He flinched again when Addi started rolling up his pant leg. She gave him a look.

“Sorry,” he said again, obviously finding it difficult to relax. He didn’t stop her from continuing, but he made sure to watch what she was doing.

Whoever he was calling answered.

“Stan! We have a problem. What? _No_ , it can’t wait. Listen, I’ve just arrived in Sacramento – well, I said I would, didn’t I? Anyway, you and Carla need to stay away from your apartment. If you’re already there, get out – oh really? Good. Because I went there today and an assassin was there. Yes, he definitely wanted me. _Yes_ , I’m fine, but that’s not important, I don’t know if he wanted you as well, and until I sort this out I want you two to stay safe. Can you put Carla on, we need to talk security. Why not? She’s with you, isn’t she?”

Ford paused for a while, then his face slowly broke into a grin. “Really? That’s wonderful, Stan! No, no, wait, I still need to talk-” He made a frustrated noise and hit redial, then sighed. “Straight to voicemail.”

“Stan okay?” Addi asked, finishing strapping on the knee brace.

“For now,” said Ford darkly. Then he brightened. “He just got engaged!”

“That’s great! He said he was going to,” Addi said happily.

“But he needs to realise how serious this is! Someone just tried to kill me – a fellow agent!”

Addi shrugged. “We are spies, Ford. Besides, Stan was here before you, right? If anyone was going after him, they would have gotten to him first,”

Ford relaxed marginally at the logic. “He should still have let me make security arrangements with Carla,”

Addi shook her head, smiling. “They just got engaged, Stanford. I’m sure work is the _last_ thing they’ll be doing tonight. Give me my phone, I have to make a call too,”

She took it back and sat next to him.

“Come on Fiddleford, pick up,” she muttered exasperatedly after a while, chewing a nail agitatedly.

_Click._

_“Hello, Tate Magucket speaking. Daddy can’t talk right now he’s watching TV,”_

“Tate? It’s Addi!” Addi said, grinning despite the reason she was calling.

_“ADDI!! Dad, Aunty Addi’s on the phone! No, she’s talkin’ ta ME!”_

Addi shook her head, stifling laughter. _This kid . . ._

“How’re you doing, Tate?”

 _“Ah’m good,”_ the boy replied politely. _“’Cept Mum got Dad a present but not me,”_

Addi gasped in horror. “She didn’t!”

_“Yeah!”_

“Well that’s probably because your Dad’s been away for a really long time,”

_“So he gets a present? Huh! No wonder he keeps goin’ travellin’!”_

Addi laughed.

 _“And they keep kissin’,”_ Tate complained.

A new voice came on the line indistinctly. _“Tate, how did ya even get your Dad’s phone?”_ The voice became clearer as the speaker took charge. _“Hi Addi!”_

“Hi Maddie!”

_“HI ADDI!”_

“HI MADDIE!”

_“HI-”_

_“Would ya stop it? It’s not that funny!”_ Shouted Fiddleford’s muffled voice.

 _“Wrong!”_ Madeline cheerfully replied. _“Sorry about that Addi, I’m sure ya know that my husband has a severe humour deficiency,”_

“I do indeed,” Addi responded gravely, registering more indignant protests on the other end. The sound of Tate’s younger voice joined in, inquiring about how long he had to go away for to get a present. Madeline laughed.

_“Anyway, what can we help ya with?”_

Addi listened to the noises of life in that household and thought about the day she had had. It was over, she had made the right choice, and she had saved the life of someone she cared about. The staggering aura of comfort and happiness in the McGuckets’ house permeated through the phone, feeding into her body and filling her with warmth. 

There was no need to worry Fiddleford. The least he deserved was a night off. Jheselbraum had been busy today – she hadn’t even answered her phone when Addi had called her right after rescuing Ford – so the most she could do was send a report via email, warning to be on guard. She’d head back to Manhattan in the morning, but until then, what else was there left to do?

“You know what, don’t worry. It’s nothing that can’t wait until morning,” she told Madeline.

_“Okay Addi, if you’re sure. Ya have a good night,”_

“You too,”

She hung up and stared at it pensively.

“Are you okay?” asked Ford suddenly.

She turned to him in surprise. “Of course I am,”

“You look tired,”

“ _You’re_ telling me that?”

Ford conceded the point with a laugh. He was not to be deterred, however.

“Is it Russia?”

After a second of silence, Addi sighed resignedly and nodded. Ford took her hand again.

“I’m sorr-”

“Don’t.” Addi warned him. “Stop feeling guilty: I don’t blame you, and it wasn’t your fault. You never would have meant for something like that to happen. In fact, you saved me. We both have had more than enough issues to deal with today without this as well.” She smiled, and Ford returned it.

“How many times am I going to have to thank you today?”

“However many times you get yourself into trouble again,”

A comfortable silence fell, during which Addi looked over Ford intently.

_Gosh, he looks dead on his feet._

“What happened to you?” she asked bluntly.

“Oh, nothing, I just . . .” He shook his head. “Working.”

“This would be the work you chased me around the world for?” Addi prodded cheekily.

“There was a fair amount of you chasing me as well,” Ford objected. “And yes, it would be.”

She felt him squeeze her hand momentarily, preparing for something.

“Actually, on that subject, sort of . . .” He took a breath. “I’ve made a decision,”

Addi waited for him to collect his thoughts, adjusting how he was sitting so he was facing her.

“The way we work – the way my agency works – is through isolation. Security reasons, et cetera, means no cooperation with . . . anyone really.” He looked even tireder as he said that. “And I’ve had enough. I don’t want to cut myself off anymore. Working with Stan has made me realise how productive it is to have someone to rely on, and I believe it’s worth the risk of a secrecy breach. Meeting you (and Fiddleford, of course, but especially you) has enforced this view.” He focused on their linked hands, turning hers over in his. She was mesmerised by his movements. He continued quietly, “I keep thinking about what it would be like to lose the people I care about. You – and Stan and Fiddleford – but you in particular is,” he frowned, the sentence getting away from him again, “what’s relevant here. You are . . . so amazing. You’re kind, clever, funny and beautiful. You are an incredibly genuine person, even when you don’t mean to be. You’re more courageous than I have ever been, and you have taught me so much in the short time that I have known you. So,” he looked her in the eye, “my decision: I want to be there for you. Whenever you need me, no matter for what reason, big or small, I want to be there. I don’t want lose you, or any more time with you, because I really, really, care about you.”

He stopped nervously. “Sorry, emotions aren’t really my area.”

“No, it was good,” Addi reassured him, finding out that her voice was unexpectedly even.

_Don’tmessthisupdon’tmessthisup._

“You know, I get excited whenever I see you.” She started warmly. “That time in Oklahoma was my lowest point in a long while, and somehow you managed to get me to function almost normally. I can’t thank you enough for that. And again, in China, I got hurt, I was a liability, but you helped me anyway, even though you had no reason to.” Her face was starting to ache from all this smiling. “You are super-smart and being easy on the eyes doesn’t hurt either.” She added giddily, mouth running away from her. “You make me feel ridiculously light-hearted in very serious situations, something I am also grateful for. You are, not only someone I think I might be falling for,” Ford’s hands tightened again, “but also a good friend. And I trust you completely, because you are constantly trying to be better.” She cleared throat. “So . . . you’re really special to me, Stanford. I would love to be there for you too,”

And suddenly they were kissing. She didn’t remember who started it, but neither of them were in any hurry to stop. Her hands cupped his jaw, and he held his arms around her waist. Just how long had she wanted to do this for? She didn’t know. She could barely remember her _name_ , she was so lost in him.

Unrushed, they got more comfortable with each other, Ford drawing her closer into his lap, Addi feeling his pulse slow down from racing. Her own flood of emotions became more manageable, the nervous tension releasing from her muscles. The breaths they took were steadier and their kisses less urgent. They simply enjoyed being there with each other.

At some point Addi started to feel as though she was in heaven. Dimly, she registered someone knock on a door across the hall, but the kiss she was melting into was taking up all her attention.

Ford, apparently, was still on paranoid overdrive due to the day’s events.

He jolted and shot to his feet, forgetting Addi was still partially on him, and she pitched onto the floor with a yelp.

“Oh G-”

He also forgot he was injured.

As he started forwards in mild horror, probably thinking he had already ruined everything, he stepped onto his sprained knee, swore, then fell over, swore again, and kept it up out of embarrassment probably. Addi stopped watching at that point, tearing up from laughter.

 

∆

Carla sighed and rolled over, unhappy to be waking up. A chink in the blinds illuminated the room, morning sounds of traffic filtering through the walls. The ring on her finger glimmered.

Carefully worming her way out of Stan’s cuddle, she found her laptop and crawled back under the warm sheets as quickly as she could, intending to check her emails. Her eyes found the USB drive that Fiddleford had given her, sitting on the bedside table. She should probably look over that more closely, too.

She took some time to examine the symbols, not just where they had been sighted. The designs were quite creative, she thought. She wondered vaguely if the Cipher Wheel agents came up with them themselves or if there was someone whose job it was to do that. A Cipher Wheel artist. Hah. She scrolled idly down.

Halfway through, she stopped dead.

There was one that was uncomfortably familiar.

She’d seen it before.

On a postcard from Oregon.

“Stan?” she said, nudging him, eyes glued to the six-fingered hand. “Wake up,”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If only Carla had kept scrolling. That blinded eye symbol would have been awfully familiar too . . .
> 
> "It was too early for 'I love you' so here, have this long speech" - a memoir by Addi and Ford, to each other, commissioned by me.
> 
> MCGUCKETFLUFFMCGUCKETFLUFFMCGUCKETFLUFF
> 
> Thus continues the saga of tired, sore, secret agents.
> 
> Carla being more attached to the Stanmobile than Stan is gives me life. I mean, come on, I don't think Stan's one of those guys who is absolutely obsessed with his car - have you seen his driving? He does not care if it gets hurt. 
> 
> I realise that the SOTBE symbol isn't on the Cipher Wheel in canon, but I needed something if Ivan was going to be a bad guy in this, okay?
> 
> Spy trope no. 53: a nice car being driven fast  
> Spy trope no. 54: SO MUCH RUNNING  
> Spy trope no. 55: assassination attempt  
> Spy trope no. 56: a sniper assembling their gun.  
> Spy trope no. 57: narrowly missing being hit by a bullet


	10. Stages of Paranoia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaaack! Hopefully it won't be too long until the next chapter. Man uni got really intense all of a sudden, but now I'm on holidays and looking forward to getting this finished!
> 
> So, without further ado . . .

**Sacramento, California (USA)** ∆

The first thing Addi became aware of was her own soft breathing. Her senses gradually informed her that she was encased in warmth: her face was comfortably half-buried in a plump pillow, a reassuringly heavy duvet lying over her, pulled up almost to her ears. A perfect way to wake up. Considering the way they’d both fallen, utterly exhausted from the day, into bed last night, Addi more than welcomed such a pleasant call to consciousness.

She smiled and swept her hand under the sheets, searching for Ford. Instead of finding him, the sounds of a stove being turned off registered with her. She opened her eyes to see Ford staggering back into the room, feeling the mattress rock as he threw himself back under the covers.

“Did you make breakfast?” Addi said quizzically. He managed a grunt and a disjointed collection of syllables that she could just about interpret as “I felt like I should”. He wrapped an arm over her shoulders, forearm lying over her chest, and shuffled closer to give her a kiss on the cheek. His eyes were closed and he missed, getting between her nose and eye instead, but it was the thought that counted. He was asleep again within moments.

Addi couldn’t help but again notice how tired he looked, even after a good night’s rest. She wondered who he could possibly work for that would demand this level of commitment.

_Not like he’s going to tell you._

She frowned, brushing away the sour thought. True, he had deflected all her inquiries about anything and everything related to what they did for a living, but she wasn’t in any hurry to find out. She was content here, embracing and being embraced by someone she cared for.

_You still have a job to do._

Okay, yes, she didn’t actually know a whole lot about him, other than the impressions he had given her. It was, to an extent, her job to find out who Stanford Pines was. And, besides, it was probably healthy for them to start dismantling the secrets and lies they were perpetually entangled in. That was what they wanted for each other, right?

There was no rush, though. She stroked his cheek and he smiled in his sleep.

It took ten minutes before she managed to step onto the carpet and go find the food Ford had made.

It turned out to be now-cold baked beans on some half-toasted toast. She shook her head and smiled, thinking maybe it was one of the best meals she’d ever had.

Gosh, she was in deep.

_In too deep. You don’t know him._

That didn’t change the fact that she wanted to. No – actually, she knew enough. She didn’t _need_ anything more right at this instant.

 _What kind of spy are you? You don’t know if you’re_ safe.

The food was suddenly soggy and unpleasant in her mouth. Where had that thought come from? Of course she was safe. Ford had _proved_ that he wasn’t going to hurt her.

 _No, he proved that he doesn’t_ mean _to hurt you. And, while we’re being picky,_ you _specifically. So what about everyone else? If you were thinking of this as a mission, you wouldn’t be ignoring all these signs. This could be an infiltration!_

Addi pushed her plate away and pressed her fingers to her temples. This was ridiculous. She was too switched on from the non-stop field action from the past couple of weeks. Yesterday, it had seemed so simple – they cared for each other, that was that. 

Maybe that was what she had needed last night: someone to reassure her that it was all going to be okay. However, today was a different matter. She should start sorting everything out, and the fact was . . . okay, fine, she didn’t know Ford as well as she’d like to think.

But she wasn’t worried. She shouldn’t be, at any rate. It wasn’t like he was bent on world destruction or anything.

 _I’ll do something,_ she decided _. We’ll talk._

_Later._

She crept back to bed and back to being untroubled.

 

∆

The six-fingered hand on the list of Cipher Wheel operatives stared accusingly up at him, the intensity of it only matched by the conflicted expression Carla was wearing.

“It’s the same, isn’t it?”

Stan swallowed. He didn’t want it to be. Anyone could draw a six-fingered hand. Ford wasn’t the only person in the world to have done so at some point.

He did it on a relatively regular basis, though: putting it on the cover of the Journal, signing the postcard with it . . .

Drawing it exactly – down to the last sloping edge and squarish fingertips – like it was portrayed in the file.

“Is – is it possible? Could Ford be working for Bill Cipher?”

No! Stan – Stan didn’t know _who_ he worked for . . .

“Yeah.” He said distantly. “It looks like it.”

He and Carla sat looking at each other for a very silent moment. Then Carla stood up and Stan followed, a flurry of activity beginning.

“I need to get down to the office,” she said, shutting the computer and stuffing it in her bag. “I’ll call Fiddleford when I get there, tell him what we’ve found. I’m going to need you two to tell me exactly what happened while you were away.”

Stan nodded distractedly, inanely packing up while still trying to get his thoughts in order. The more he thought about it, the more sense it made: shady non-governmental organisation, reluctance to admit who was in charge, paramount secrecy techniques, unsavoury connections, seemingly endless influence . . . the list went on and on. It was a wonder Stan hadn’t made the connection before now.

But Ford wasn’t a _bad guy_. Not like working for the Cipher Wheel should entail. This didn’t add up, there was no way that it _fit_.

He had to sort this out. He had to talk to Ford _before_ anyone else did.

He unlocked his phone, opening a program that Ford, ironically, had insisted on installing.

“We’re going to need to find Ford ASAP,” Carla was saying.

_Already on it._

The place the last call the phone had received came up on the screen. It wasn’t too far from here. He had to make it on foot, however, which would slow him down.

“I’ll meet you at the office,” he promised Carla as he shoved his feet in his shoes, kissed her, and hurried out the door before she could stop him.

 

∆

Ford woke up much easier the second time around, hearing Addi moving outside the room. Judging by the amount of sunlight on the floor it was getting close to midday. Usually, sleeping in so late would bother him, but right now? Not in the slightest. He seemed incapable of feeling anything but relaxed and content.

He smiled at the partially open door as he sat up, wondering what was going to happen now regarding himself and Addi. Quite honestly, he’d never had anything like this happen to him before – he had never even sought it out to any great extent. Nevertheless, he was looking forward to whatever was to come next. More kissing, he hoped.

His eyes drifted around unhurriedly, eventually coming to rest on the Journal, which he had placed on the nightstand before he fell asleep.

_Yes, I need to write a report._

Ford opened the book and considered what to say. He was not particularly in the mood for report-writing. In fact, he felt more like . . . attempting poetry? 

Oh, God, what next? Was this the norm, now?

Smiling broadly, he began to write. Not poetically, but in an admittedly far less formal manner than he was accustomed to.

_Her name is Adeline Marks, the agent previously referred to as A. I have already recounted the mission profile of our first meeting in Bergamo, but now, it would be my pleasure to record more, and the meetings afterwards. The things that were not aspects of the assignment._

 

 

∆

Adeline closed up her duffle bag at last and set it on the bench, leaving her gun holstered on top of it.

Ford had woken up in the other room. She happily pulled out her phone, texting Fiddleford.

_I bet I can find out who Stanford Pines works for faster than you._

Leaving her phone where it was, she walked in to find Ford sitting on the edge of the bed, glasses back on, journal in his lap, writing. He looked up at her when she entered, matching her smile-for-smile. Addi felt her worries about something not being right evaporate as easily as fog. 

_We still need to talk._

In the back of her mind, she noted that she had really had enough of those suspicious thoughts.

Even they started to fade as she sat down next to Ford, though.

 

 **Palo Alto, California (USA)** ∆

Fiddleford stared in confusion down at his phone, specifically at the two simultaneous texts he had received. One was from Carla McCorkle, saying that she was on her way to the FBI field office, and that she had identified a possible Cipher Wheel agent.

Ford.

He stared in dumb shock at it, anxiety mounting, but he couldn’t find it in him to refute it. He hated to admit so, but this made an awful lot of sense.

What had he done?

_“I don’t think I’m exaggeratin’ when I say this could topple governments.”_

He’d practically given the man’s boss the key to taking over the world! 

_“The people I work for might be a bit . . . unconventional, but it’s for the good of humanity, I promise.”_

_I bet I can find out who Stanford Pines works for faster than you._

He swallowed and replied to the second text. It didn’t look like Addi was going to win that wager.

“For the love of-” he muttered after a minute, raking a hand through his hair, fixedly staring at the screen.

She wasn’t responding.

 

 **Sacramento, California (USA)** ∆

“How’s your knee?” Addi asked.

“Well . . . better than yesterday,” Ford answered with a half-laugh, taking her left hand in both of his, smiling wider when she stacked her other on top. She threaded their fingers together one by one, not especially caring how sappy she was being.

“Fiddleford told me what you were working on,” Addi said, easing the conversation in the direction she wanted.

“I . . . don’t know why that’s a surprise,” Ford said, faintly exasperated. She was sorry to see a little annoyance and regret clouding his face.

She hadn’t been telling the truth: Fiddleford did know about it, but he had decided, with a deeply thoughtful look, that he would tell her and Jheselbraum about it together, when he went to deliver his own report in person. At that point he hadn’t thought of it as an urgent matter: apparently the device had still been missing a piece when he looked over the design.

“I’m guessing you _have_ finished it now?” she voiced.

Ford had a guarded look in his eye, but he nodded after a moment. Addi kept her expression open, reassuring him without words.

“It was easy enough to piece together, once I had the parts,” he offered, letting her in more.

“I don’t believe that for a second.” Addi said, only half-playful. “You looked the furthest thing from okay I’d ever seen, yesterday.”

As Ford reluctantly acknowledged that, she continued, “Don’t tell me you did that voluntarily-”

“I _did_ -” interrupted Ford.

“And now you have to tell me what knucklehead’s making you believe that.” Addi interrupted in turn. “I’m guessing this isn’t a one-off incident.”

Ford’s expression was searching, but also so fond that it made her heart skip a beat.

“I can’t tell you who I work for,” he said, gently but firmly, leaning his forehead against hers. He’d seen right through her after all. “I promise I will at some point, but . . . there’s a few things I need to explain first.”

“So explain them,” she pushed earnestly.

“I can’t – it’s not-” Ford sighed, struggling to find the words.

_That’s not a good sign._

_Shut up._

“It’s all right,” Addi relented, before an uncomfortable silence could shudder its way in.

“Really?” Ford asked, looking relieved.

“Sure.” She shrugged it off like it was nothing.

_Not good enough. You suck at interrogations._

_No, it’s fine. I’ll find out soon anyway – either from him or Fidds._

Ford brought up the hand he held to kiss it, making heat flood to her face in a powerful rush. She kissed him back, on the lips, to allow herself some recovery time.

After a moment she hesitantly said, “I want you to come back to Manhattan with me.” When he didn’t immediately protest, she continued, “I need to report to my agency, and maybe we could make a start on those explanations? Also I’d,” she grinned hopelessly, “I’d like to keep seeing you.”

There was a dopey grin on his face as well. “I’d like to keep seeing you, too.” He nodded slowly, a contemplative air overtaking him. “And I think it would be good for my own agency to open itself up more. We could . . . start a collaboration?”

He suggested it tentatively, but Addi accepted it with gusto. She nodded eagerly, squeezing his fingers. Like her subconscious had suddenly snapped its fingers in an attempt to get her attention, her feeling of off-ness intensified.

_Whatareyoudoingwhatareyoudoingwhatareyoudoing-_

“What were you writing?” She noticed his journal again.

“Just thoughts. Some memories,” he answered vaguely.

 _He’s_ still _not answering you properly! ‘Don’t worry, Addi!’ ‘It’s not you concern, Addi!’ ‘Never mind that you don’t know anything about me, Addi!’ Start_ thinking _about this!_

Eventually she managed to tear herself away and check that she’d packed everything. She found herself standing aimlessly at the bench again (absolutely _not_ ignoring any feelings that might bear some resemblance to an intensely mounting anxiety exerting planet-core levels of pressure on her and which had _nothing_ to do with Ford, so everything was fine, just fine), waiting for Ford to finish in the shower. Absent-mindedly, she checked her phone.

There were eighteen missed messages from Fiddleford, both texts and calls.

Pressure constricted her again and this time there was no avoiding it. Addi frantically scrolled back through the messages, dreading what could have come up for Fiddleford to need to contact her so urgently. Had something happened to him? Was he hurt? Someone had tried to frame her yesterday, what if something similar was going on with him?

She suddenly thought that she had made a huge mistake in not heading back to Manhattan last night. Granted, she hadn’t been thinking too clearly, but _so what_ if she hadn’t been able to contact Jheselbraum? Fiddleford could be in trouble! It would have been better if she had just gotten on a plane straight after. . . finding Ford . . .

Even if she could have stopped the bead of suspicion from forming in her mind, she didn’t think she’d have wanted to. Something was falling into place.

She reached the first message Fiddleford had sent her. It fit very unwelcomely into the seemingly tailor-made gap in her thoughts, the persistently excavated hole of suspicion that her subconscious was flooding with warning lights.

_We’ve identified a Cipher Wheel agent. Stanford Pines._

Nevertheless, she huffed a small laugh. Autocorrect got the better of everyone now and again, right? 

She looked at the next message.

_Addi? When you get this, answer me._

And the next.

_Addi pick up._

Her smile slipped a bit. She kept looking.

_Why did you bet you could find out who he worked for faster than me? Do you have a lead?_

_Have you found him? Are you with him now?_

_Addi PICK UP._

_Addi are you okay?_

_If anyone finds this phone, please call this number. . ._

There was not a single trace of good humour anywhere on or around her now. Everything was so quiet as she teetered precariously on the edge of a catastrophe, or maybe this was the silence right before she hit the bottom. It did feel a lot like she was in free-fall. The only sound was the water running in the next room.

When the full weight of what had happened hit her, it wasn’t an immense shock to her system. It was a series of realisations, interlocking together so disastrously perfectly, crushing her in rhythm, the floors of a collapsing building.

What had she done?

There was no denying it; it made a heck of a lot of sense. _God_ , it made sense.

What the _hell_ had she _done_?

Addi’s phone slipped out of her fingers as she stared sightlessly at the opposite wall.

She’d been about to bring him back to _Jheselbraum_. To Oracle Division headquarters. She’d almost betrayed them, betrayed _Fiddleford_ , if she somehow hadn’t already. Their _lives_ might be in danger. Because of her. Because of how she couldn’t recognise when her feelings were being manipulated; which Ford was just in the right position to do.

A cold flush of fear spread through her, pooling in her stomach like ice water.

She’d _fallen asleep_ next to him.

More and more puzzle pieces fell into place.

Yesterday had been the _perfect_ opportunity for someone to take advantage of her disarray. She had been scared, she had needed someone around she could count on when it felt like she was alone and the target of an invisible enemy. Ford had been running for his life, desperately in need of someone’s help, in a place that was in exactly the right spot for her to provide it. Right when she was equipped with a very efficient tool for the job.

How convenient then, for her to be there. How perfect. How _manufactured._

Not only yesterday, but all the other missions as well. Four different countries! Four entire nations! She had managed to run into him in every single one.

She supposed it didn’t really mattered whether or not she had pulled the trigger to end that man’s life. Either way, she played right into his – Cipher’s, Ford’s, whoever’s – hands. 

The shower wasn’t running anymore.

“Wow, that was amazing, thank you. Alright, I just need my coat and then we can-”

She whipped around, her gun aimed squarely at his forehead. He stopped dead.

“Adeline, what’s wrong?” he asked her steadily, looking past the weapon as though it didn’t exist.

 

 **Palo Alto, California (USA)** ∆

“Ah need to go,” speed-talked Fiddleford as he rushed around the house, picking up all the things he thought he might need and shoving them into his bag.

“Why? What’s wrong?” Madeline said, a worried frown creasing her forehead as she watched him.

“Addi’s not picking up. Not only that, but her phone says she’s in Sacramento. Since when has she been in Sacramento?!” Fiddleford said, wildly spreading his arms as he dropped the bag on the living room floor.

“Have ya asked Jheselbraum? She might have a mission there,” suggested Maddie.

“Ya think I haven’t tried? It’s like the entire island of Manhattan’s just gone dark! I can’t get through at all!”

 

 **Sacramento, California (USA)** ∆

“Addi, whatever it is, let me-”

“You’re the six-fingered hand on the Cipher Wheel, aren’t you?”

Ford froze for the second time that morning. She could see the thoughts brewing frantically in his mind. He must have been able to tell that her shock was giving way to anger more with every passing second, because he licked his lips and carefully asked, “Why do you think that?”

Immediately, her temper flared. “I don’t _think_ that, I _know_ that! Fiddleford just got a match on Oracle Division’s list of agents working for Bill Cipher, and _you_ are the first missing link, buddy!”

His eyes widened. “You’re working for Oracle Division?”

Addi felt like screaming. With a concerted effort, she kept her voice cold and hard. “Stanford, you can drop the act. Does he know?”

“Does who know what?” he said, looking lost, like the ground had been uprooted around him. Nice try.

“Cipher! Does he know about us? Does he know about Fiddleford? Have you told him?”

“I – no, Addi, I haven’t told him, but this isn’t what-”

“What about me? Does know about me?” she demanded, not letting the wave of relief she felt at his words soften her.

Ford hesitated. Then, he closed his eyes momentarily, answering as though each word was being painfully drawn out of him.

“Yes. I told him about you. Right after Bergamo,”

It was okay. It was fine. She’d expected as much.

She could be scared later.

Ford wasn’t done. “Addi, I promise you, you don’t need to worry. This is all a misunderstanding,”

Momentarily speechless at the enormity of that lie, Addi let him continue only because she had no idea what to say.

“Bill Cipher is flawed, yes, but not an evil person-”

“Are you kidding me? Are you _kidding_ me?!”

“-Adeline, I swear, I would never hurt-”

“The amount of people who’ve gone missing, the amount who’ve turned up _dead-_ ”

“- _never_ seen any evidence of those accusations-”

“-the traces of corruption we’ve found all across the globe, _in governments_ -”

“-do you really think that I would be _complicit_ in-”

“-the Cipher Conspiracy-”

“-is not real!”

Once again, Addi was stunned into silence. Was he mad? Was that it?

Ford seized the chance to speak without interruption, rapidly pouring out word after word, each one making her feel more anguished.

“It’s a rumour, a lie, invented by Bill’s enemies to foster suspicion and discontent. That’s all,”

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Addi said, “So you expect me to believe that you, a Cipher Wheel agent, have not been following me, an agent of Oracle Division and a sizeable threat to Bill Cipher, to at least three different countries, building a dangerous machine to further your not-sinister-at-all plans?”

Ford winced. “I realise how unlikely it must seem to you, but yes. I didn’t mean to encounter you so many times, but our missions really did just align that way – it was an unbelievable coincidence,”

Addi raised her eyes to the ceiling, laughing with a sound more like a hitch in her breathing. “Do you even hear yourself?”

For the first time, a flash of frustration overcame Ford’s face.

“What happened to trusting me? You said you did last night,” he bit out.

“Well, what happened to caring about me?”

“I do!”

Anger, more than before, boiled up in her, because this couldn’t just be simple, could it? It couldn’t just be that she’d only been a target; he had to feel hurt and betrayed as well, didn’t he?

No matter what new information had come to light, it was still too short an amount of time between the quiet words and loving kisses of that very morning and . . . _this_ for her not to feel awful about causing those emotions in him.

She had to get out.

 

 **Palo Alto, California (USA)** ∆

“Ya think it’s Cipher?” said Maddie in a low voice.

Fiddleford rubbed his hands over his face. “I don’t know. Ah’m headin’ back to Sacramento to find out,”

“You’re leavin’ already?” complained Tate. Neither of them had even noticed he’d come into the room.

Fiddleford dropped to his knees and hugged the boy tightly. “Three more months and then Ah won’t be goin’ anywhere.” He promised. “You can wait that long, can’t ya?”

Tate nodded unhappily.

At the door, Maddie took hold of his tie and said, “If ya need any help, you _tell_ me, alright, Agent McGucket?”

“Yes ma’am,” nodded Fiddleford, kissing her briefly.

 

 **Sacramento, California (USA)** ∆

Ford considered her, that evaluating expression on his face far from unfamiliar. “Addi, you’re not going to shoot me,” he decided, moving forwards.

Damn it. He was right.

Defeatedly, she dropped her arm, and Ford took it as a sign that it was okay to step closer still. It wasn’t.

“Stop,” she ordered, or maybe pleaded, holding up her empty hand. “Stop.” He did.

She was furious, both at herself and him, and if she started to think about how much danger she had been in from yesterday until this morning – how much danger she had put other people in – she was going to start shaking from fear. So many thoughts and accusations were whirling around in her head, too many to voice. It was making her feel a little sick. She needed to be alone, she needed to _think_ : God knew she wasn’t exactly in control at the moment.

“Stop _assuming_ that you’re right,”

Ford didn’t seem to know how to respond to that.

Addi tried to focus her thoughts again. All she could muster up was the intense desire to get away.

“I’m leaving.” She said stonily. “And then you have ten minutes before I call Oracle Division.”

_Which is only going to happen if I can get a hold of Jheselbraum._

“Not because I care,” she added, “but because I don’t want to have to explain why you were with me.”

The hurt on his face did not stir in her the triumph she thought it would.

She went.

 

∆

Half of the agents were still stuck in traffic, which was why not many people saw Carla sprint into the building that morning.

She reached her floor out of breath and swung into her office. She felt inside the light, under her desk, in the shelves, behind the blinds, doing the quickest but also most thorough search for surveillance equipment she could. She didn’t find anything.

Paranoid, she checked her pocket to see that the Oracle Division file was still there. It was.

No messages on her phone besides a terse acknowledgement from Fiddleford. He was on his way, but she knew she shouldn’t expect him for a while. Until then, she was on her own.

A thought struck her, and she poked her head outside, looking at the office opposite. Crap. Wexler wasn’t in yet either. Although, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to share this with any more people, yet.

Trying to calm herself down, Carla took a breath and sat composedly at her desk. Soon, all the information the FBI had on Stanford Filbrick Pines was open on her computer.

 

∆

Ford was left feeling hollowed out and empty at Addi’s sudden absence. It was like he had only been able to watch helplessly, unable to do anything of use, as the past several minutes unfolded and unravelled everything that he had thought they had built up.

He could not do anything but stand where he had stopped, staring.

Coming out of that bedroom six minutes ago, he had been so ready to leave the apartment holding Addi’s hand. When he had seen her standing with her back to him, he had thought there was nothing that could stand in the way of the embrace he wanted to pull her into.

How the hell had it gone so wrong?

Static in his mind was the answer.

She had said that he _assumed_ he was right, presumably because she did not think he had been listening to her well enough. That was ridiculous, especially coming from her! She had been equally as adamant about her own position.

He tried to think about it from her perspective. If he could comprehend her thought process, then he could start to sort this mess out.

She thought he had been – been seducing her in order to get closer to her agency and take it down. Ford closed his eyes and pressed his palms to his face. No, it was okay, he could fix that. He just had to assure her that he really did care for her. Considering her adeptness at reading people, she should have been able to see he was sincere about that already, but whatever more was required, he would do it.

She thought Bill was evil. Easy – he would introduce them.

His mouth went dry. No, he did not want to do that. A month ago he would have balked at it simply for security reasons; now, he realised that he did not want Adeline Marks anywhere _near_ Bill Cipher due to far stranger reasons.

Yesterday. The morbidity of the house. The confusion, resentment, and anger he had felt at being back in his employer’s presence. Allowing the thought to creep in that he disagreed with the methods the Cipher Wheel used (the isolation, the constant observation, _the contact with the Mafia_ ). Finding he did not like the way his agency operated in the least. And it was because of Bill. There was something _off_ about him, something he had not noticed before. It had taken two weeks with Stan for him to remember what proper human interaction was supposed to be like.

 _Taking that into account . . ._ is _Bill evil?_

_Does that mean that Addi was right? Everyone was right?_

_The Cipher Conspiracy_ does _exist?_

Ford’s hands dropped from his face. His brain was humming with activity again.

No . . .

No, something actually was humming.

He frowned. He knew that tune.

_Hmmmm hm hm hm_

_Hm hm hmmm, hm hm hmmm_

_Hmm hm know, we’ll meet again_

_Some sunny day._

The door creaked open.

A shiny shoe stepped over the threshold, the soft swish of a spinning cane following after. Light from the window struck what looked like a light bulb, the shimmern it was made of dazzling the eye. The rest of the device gleamed, new and ready for use. Bill Cipher turned on the spot, taking in his surroundings, grinning in that deadly way of his. The humming abruptly cut off in the middle of a line.

“Nice place, this. I can see why you’d want to vay-cay here.” Bill unhurriedly completed his revolution, facing Ford.

“I’d say it’s not a permanent fixture though. That lovely lady I saw on the way up looked pretty upset, you ol’ heartbreaker you!” He held the memory gun innocently by his side, loosely pointed at the ground.

When Ford said nothing, Bill seemed happy to keep talking. He began to wander around, hitting a pillow on the couch with his twirling cane. It made a _whoomp_ as it fell to the floor.

“She was meant to be arrested today. Only, she never assassinated anyone, so we couldn’t go ahead with _that_ plan. Would’ve been great if she did – Oracle Division would be being decimated right about now. Guess it’s gonna have to wait a while,”

Bill sauntered over to the bedroom door, prodding it open none too gently with the cane, then swinging it up to lie across his shoulders.

“Nice gal,” he commented, entering. “Fitting. For the saying, that is – ‘only the good die young’. Not that she’s the only one. It applies to you too, IQ.” He shot Ford, watching him from back in the living room, another grin over his shoulder. When he turned back, he evidently found what he was searching for.

“Hey, there it is! Knew I could count on you, Brainiac, you always have this lying around somewhere,”

Bill whipped the cane off his shoulders and stabbed it into the wooden floor. The violence of it made Ford flinch. It must have had a blade concealed in it, because it stayed upright when Bill let go, shuddering.

 He strode back out of the room with the memory gun in one hand and the Journal in the other. The change in speed set Ford’s fight-or-flight instincts screaming. Bill slammed the book down on the kitchen bench, twisted the dial on the memory gun with blinding speed, and levelled it at him.

 _I should have run_ , Ford realised. Bill was back between him and the door now, and that easy-going manner had been erased as though it never existed. His eyes were rage-filled and jaw was clenching. Without looking, he roughly flicked open the Journal to a random page.

“Let’s review the people on my death-list.” He hissed. “Well there’s _you_ , smart guy. _Her_ of course, and just so you know, it’s going to painful. A certain far-too-clever-for-her-own-good FBI agent; I’ll get Blind Eye to handle that one. This-” he turned his burning gaze on the book – “F person, who you’ve so helpfully included in your report. And of course-” he glared back at Ford – “Stan the Man! Who has been far. Too. Lucky. I’m going to make sure that one’s painful as well,”

Ford had gone dead white, and Bill laughed viciously, toying with the gun’s trigger. “What should I do with your memories, once they’re all stored in here? I _really_ fancy the idea of dropping them out of a plane: the great Stanford Pines! The man who wanted to change the world! Oh, how the mighty _will_ have fallen!” He laughed again.

“One more thing, before I start killing you. I want to see the look on your face.” Bill dug in his pocket and pulled his phone, unlocking it and tossing it over to Ford, who caught it in a numb hand. He tore his gaze away from the bulb pointed at him and looked down at a line graph, with a number of colourful lines spiking and dipping along it. It seemed to detail a progress report of some kind, taking place over the course of the last month.

“Red is anger,” Bill said helpfully. Ford’s eyes were immediately drawn to the jagged red line. “See that big spike? That was Russia. I watched it peak when I called you, kiddo! And way, way, _way_ above it, that green line? Fear.

“The pink one was pretty interesting: happiness. See it at the start of the month? Look how _low_ it is, Fordsy! Go to about two weeks ago. That peak? Visit from the bro. How nice, right? And it just wouldn’t stop getting higher after that! I have to say though, I’m pretty offended at that dip it took two days ago.” Bill shook his head in mock hurt. “But then last night! Woo! I don’t think I’ve _ever_ seen it so high!”

Bill held out his hand for the phone, and somehow Ford managed to move enough to throw it back. “Yeah, that’s why this isn’t exactly a surprise. But here’s the clincher: you remember that little chip you made for me a couple years back?”

Ford had already guessed it was that, but as Bill said it aloud, laughing at the mounting horror on his face, it seemed to become a reality.

“You said it would be a good way to monitor people we wanted to keep an eye on! Well buddy, _you_ were one of the first test subjects. I have to say, you were right! Feeling a little different, now you see that all the things I wanted you to make are going to be used against you? Ha! Classic Stanford.”

Ford could only stare, struggling to remember how to breathe. Bill had known. The whole time he had known. He might not have been able to see his thoughts, but extrapolating from his emotions was easy enough. He had _known_ the entire time that Ford was growing discontented, that he wanted change, that he wanted _out_. Now, he was going to take Ford’s memories, his whole _identity_. He would kill him soon after, and then the others, his friends, his brother, would follow, and somewhere along the way, Oracle Division would fall. The only chance of stopping him, gone.

It all started with Ford.

Bill grinned and took careful aim.

Ford braced himself.

Bill’s finger tightened on the trigger –

\- and the door burst open with a bang, flattening against the wall, and Stan dived through, knocked the device from Bill’s hand, drew back his fist, slammed it into Bill’s face. Bill crashed back into the bench, Stan spun, grabbed Ford by his sleeve, and dragged him out of the apartment.

∆

They whipped around a corner, running for the stairwell on the other side of the building. Stan tried not to think too much about what he had just done, only that it had felt _really_ good.

Ford stumbled behind him and he glanced back. His brother was as white as a sheet, trembling. His breathing was uneven. He was having a panic attack. A bad one, at that.

Stan shoved open the door, making sure it closed behind them, then checked the level below and above to make sure they were alone.

“Okay, Ford, it’s okay, just breathe,” he said, guiding him to sit down on the ascending steps. He knelt down next to him, adjusting his grip so it held Ford’s wrist as well as the sleeve. Ford’s gasps sounded painful as they tore down his throat, his eyes tightly closed as he attempted to regain control. As the seconds passed and they didn’t get any more even, Ford groaned and fisted his hands in his hair, all twelve fingers digging into his scalp tightly, hunching over as though he was trying to block out the world.

“Hey, it’s okay, you’ve done this a hundred times before,” Stan said, fighting to keep his own voice calm and soothing as he frantically pushed away thoughts about Cipher Wheel agents, or Cipher himself, bursting through the door, clattering up or down the stairs to get to them.

“He’s in – my head,” Ford said around his breathing.

“What?”

“ _He’s in my head,”_

“Hey, Ford, listen. You’re going to be fine. You hear me? _Fine._ Just think about something else, like, er-” Stan scrabbled for a memory – “like, remember when we left home? Pa was so mad.” He grinned. “You remember taking the Stanmobile down to the beach, sleeping on the sand for the night? Waves crashing on the shore, stars above us.” Stan allowed himself a huff of a laugh. “That was great. Sure, we were scared, sure we had no idea what to do, and sure, you had a panic attack or two-”

“Is this supposed – to make me ca- calm down?!” Ford said incredulously.

“Hey, give me _some_ credit, you’re not shaking anymore.” To demonstrate his point, Stan carefully disengaged one of Ford’s hands from his head, letting him see it’s relative stillness compared to before. Evidently, Ford still needed to hang onto something though, because he gripped Stan’s shoulder immediately after. His breathing was slowing a little.

“The point is, we figured it out. We made it work. And the next night, and the night after that, until we got back on our feet,”

Ford held in some air for a while, and when he let it go, it was reasonably steady. He’d have to live with it.

“Alright, you good to go?”

Ford nodded and they stood up. He released his grip on Stan’s shoulder after another second.

“Great, ‘cause there’s about four people in this building who want to kill us,”

“Oh.” Ford didn’t seem to be able to muster up much of a response. He was still pretty pale, but they had already been in the stairwell for too long. They had to start moving.

“Yeah.” Stan led the way down to the next level. “I was sneaky enough coming up, so they didn’t notice me, but I’m pretty sure they’re going to be on high alert by the time we get down there. I’m assuming they’re buddies of yours?”

“Ex-buddies, I should think. And we’ve never met.” Ford murmured. “How did you know you had to be stealthy?”

“You called me last night saying there was assassin after you. Figured it was best not to take chances, what with us looking the same and all." He gestured to his newly-cut hair.

“Ah,”

They reached the ground floor. Stan stopped. He turned to Ford.

“Do you have a gun?”

Ford stared at him.

“Do I _look_ like I’m armed?”

“I was just _asking_.” Stan breathed in through his nose and turned back to the door. “Fists it is, I guess,”

“You’re not armed either?”

“Nope,”

A bullet shot into the concrete at Stan’s feet, missing him by a hair. Ford tackled him through the door.

They landed in the back corner of the lobby, near a large potted plant. Quick footsteps and swift orders could be heard from the stairwell before the door swung shut again.

On the far wall, a woman behind the receptionist’s desk stood up. Stan and Ford scrambled to their feet, nodding professionally to her as though nothing was wrong. She pulled out a pistol, suppressor screwed over the barrel.

Stan hit the floor, the shot going over his head, colliding with the giant pot plant. He heard Ford dive around to the other side of it, using it as cover. That was a good idea.

Stan rolled out of the way, two more bullets cracking the tiles where he had been, many inventive obscenities streaming through his mind. As he got his feet under him, Ford grabbed his arm and hauled him behind the pot, chunks of ceramic flying through the air, dirt sprinkling onto the floor.

This was not good. They were sitting ducks, just waiting for the agent to pick them off. They couldn’t go for the door: she’d have a clear shot if they did. She didn’t seem to know that they didn’t have guns, and so was staying behind the safety of the counter for now, but she’d work it out soon enough – they weren’t firing back at her.

“We need to take her out,” Ford said, hissing as a shard of pottery cut his ear.

“We need a weapon for that,” grunted Stan, trying not to think about how much smaller the pot seemed with the two of them trying to hide behind it.

Noises from the stairwell. Ford swore. Stan grinned.

“What?” Ford demanded.

“Weapons!” The idea took root in his mind, and Ford looked at him like he was crazy.

“As well as people who will aim them at us, yes!”

The door burst open, revealing two more agents. Stan wasted no time waiting for them to look around, see them, and shoot them. As soon as they appeared he flung himself out from behind cover, moving as fast as he could. He reached the nearest agent, cannoning into his side, slamming his forehead into his nose. Stan grabbed his jacket to keep him upright, turning so that the disoriented man was between him and the receptionist’s desk. The third agent was halfway through raising her own gun towards him when a lump of pot plant struck her in the forehead, drawing blood. She closed her eyes instinctively, swearing, letting Ford rapidly close the distance between them, grabbing her in a headlock and following Stan’s lead in keeping her between him and the desk.

Stan’s guy was recovering. He punched him in the face to make him stop. The agent went limp. Stan wrenched the gun from his hand, let him drop, and darted behind cover again. Then he remembered Ford.

His brother was shaken up and way, _way_ off his game. The agent slipped out of his lock easily, twisting him arm, kicking his knee, which even in the middle of a fight Stan could see was already injured. Ford yelled, the sound making Stan jolt away from the plant again, bring the gun up, fire it without a second thought. The bang almost deafened him. Apparently that other guy wasn’t a fan of suppressors.

“STAN!”

He’d forgotten about the one behind the counter. Ford tried to pull him out of the way, but shot still grazed his shoulder, pain spreading all the way to his hand. He fired back, the agent ducking out of sight again. He kept up it up intermittently as Ford got to his feet, and they moved as quick as they could to the exit. Then they broke into as fast a run as they could manage.

“Down here, the Stanmobile’s not far!” Ford told him. Once they were a block away, they slowed down, Stan hiding the gun as the streets got busier, adjusting his jacket so it hid his bloody shoulder. Ford kept looking twitchily behind them, paranoid – with good reason – that they were being followed. He also kept touching a certain spot behind his head, but Stan hadn’t seen him get injured there. At one point, again after touching the spot, his breaths started coming short and fast again, but he managed to calm down before it developed into hyperventilating.

They reached the car without any incidents, parked outside Stan’s apartment building.

“Okay, get in.” Stan ordered Ford, opening the passenger door for him. “We have to make ourselves scarce. People will have heard that fight, and Cipher will still be coming after us. We’ll go to Carla, sort everything out with her, and then we can figure out our next move. Ford? You with me?”

Ford was fingering the spot on the back of his head again, his hand shaking. He stared at nothing in abject fear.

“He’s in my head . . .” he whispered.

“Ford, why d’you keep saying that? What do you mean?”

Ford lowered his hand, looking faintly sick. “I can’t go with you. I have to sort something out first,”

Stan all but started tearing his hair out. “You can’t be serious! Ford, just take a moment and calm down, okay? We got away-”

“No, no I didn’t, you don’t understand, it could have a tracking device, or, or a kill switch, or-” Ford shook his head violently, looking more stressed and desperate by the second. It was as though now he had a moment to think he was crumbling.

“What could? The car?”

“No, no, the car should be fine . . .”

“Well then let’s get in it and go somewhere safe.” He grabbed Ford’s arm, trying to make him sit down in the passenger seat. His brother shook him off jerkily. Stan winced as his shoulder twinged again.

Seeing this, Ford reached into a pocket, bringing out a packet of pills. He handed one over to Stan.

“It’ll help with the pain,”

“Then you take one as well.” Stan glared, making sure Ford actually put one in his mouth before taking and swallowing his own, thinking about how to best reassure him.

Ford spat the tablet back out into his hand. He looked at Stan in mingled apology, defiance, and distress.

“You ffff . . .” Stan slurred, as the drug took effect. Ford grabbed his arm, guiding him to sit down as his legs buckled.

“Don’t . . . y’don’t nee . . . leave.” Stan weakly grasped at Ford’s sleeve, but his brother easily slipped away.

_Nonono you idiot, what are you doing, don’t do this, don’t do this . . ._

“I’m sorry, it’ll wear off in ten minutes. Keep your phone on, I’ll call you when . . .”

Ford’s voice faded out and Stan was encased in blackness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so Phase 2 comes to a close . . .
> 
> Spy trope no. 58: the morning after betrayal  
> Spy trope no. 59: our heroes fight their way out of a building


	11. A Meeting of Spies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phase 1: Collection  
> Phase 2: Construction  
> Welcome to the final part, Phase 3: Catastrophe :)))  
> (Or, the usual process of building something, even if that something is plot)
> 
> This chapter's pretty much about getting all the characters onto the same page (except Ford, who's busy being dramatic. Poor guy).

**Sacramento, California (USA)** ∆

Addi sped into the public bathroom, head down, eyes furtively whipping around to check that it was empty. There were a couple of women in the changing rooms, but other than that there was no one around. Good. She dumped her bag on the floor, closing her eyes and breathing more evenly. When she was ready, she opened them and looked at her bloody reflection in the mirror.

Huh. It wasn’t as bad as she’d thought it would be.

“First aid kit,” she muttered, rooting through the bag. If she’d been able to muster up any emotion other than stress, fear, and grief, she would have been proud to say she’d given as good as she’d got. Better, even.

Two people had been waiting for her in the elevator, which she really should have expected. She’d been in close proximity to a Cipher Wheel agent for almost twenty-four hours, so of course there would have been others converging on her.

Addi ran her hands under the cold water of the tap, rinsing off the blood on her hands and washing out the cuts and scrapes on her knuckles. They hadn’t been expecting her fists, or in fact, anything about the fight she had given them.

One had still gotten in a lucky shot, though. Addi winced as she wiped her nose. It wasn’t broken. She’d managed to avoid that – by turning her head. Now she could see a lovely bruise forming on her cheekbone.

The elevator had been too close-quarters for weapons to be drawn properly. Addi had managed to kick – literally – both of them out the doors when they opened on the next floor, adding a strained leg muscle to her injuries, and another cracked rib to each of theirs. They’d gotten distracted by an incoming call on their earpieces, Addi had hit the button to close the doors as fast as she could, and the last she had seen was them sprinting towards the stairwell. She’d stopped the elevator right before the lobby and taken a back exit at a sprint.

And that was that.

Her expression crumpled and she started sobbing. Just as quickly, she stifled the sounds and lifted her eyes to the ceiling, grasping the edges of the sink tightly until she was back in control, taking in one, two deep breaths.

It didn’t _fit_ , none of it _fit_. Ford had been trying to get to Oracle Division through her; he had been biding his time. He had repeatedly said – truthfully, she could tell – that he cared about her, as well as told her that he wouldn’t hurt her. He had said that Cipher Wheel agents were completely solitary. And yet, despite all of this, _two_ had casually watched as she got into the elevator with them, waited for the doors to close, and then begun their attack. There was no mistaking that they had been after her.

So what? Spies lied. That’s what they did. That’s what _she_ did.

That’s not what Ford did. At least, not with her. He avoided questions, he gave half-truths, he pretended he hadn’t heard, or he accidentally let something slip, but he had never lied to her. Quite apart from anything else, she would have known if he had.

So why was nothing lining up anymore?

There was something that she wasn’t seeing.

Addi shook her head, wiped her nose – not due to blood this time – and quickly checked another bruise on her ribs. If she let her thoughts overcome her again, she’d be crying on the bathroom floor and of no use to anyone. More pressingly, if she spared any more time thinking about this, the agents would catch up to her.

She was being hunted. She needed to get somewhere safe.

 

∆

To be fair, Stan _did_ wake up feeling much better: the stinging in his shoulder had died down uncannily. However, considering that Ford had drugged him in the first place, he ignored that.

He lurched up in the passenger seat of the Stanmobile. Traffic passed by the driver’s window, pedestrians walked past on the pavement, the entrances of the surrounding apartments all remained empty, and same deal with the other parked cars: nothing suspicious at all.

Stan scrambled out of the car, looking wildly around. No sign of Ford.

“Holy-”

He couldn’t even find the words. Settling for dragging his hands through his hair, he kept his eyes fruitlessly on the side walk, turning his head frequently out of a desperate need to be proved wrong.

_Please tell me he didn’t leave again, please let him not have disappeared, not again, not again._

At least those agents hadn’t found him (Stan, that was. Who knew what could have happened to his idiotic, freaked out, unnecessarily protective, supposedly-intelligent-actually-massively-moronic brother?). Well, hadn’t found him yet, to be more accurate. It might have only been ten minutes, and Ford wouldn’t have – he hoped – left him lying unconscious and defenceless unless he was sure Stan would be safe, but they could still catch up to him, and next time they’d be expecting him. 

Cursing, Stan went around to the other side of the car and opened the door. Starting the engine and pulling out of the space did not provide nearly enough distraction from his thoughts.

Okay, so, it was obvious Ford wasn’t working for Cipher, judging by the expression on the snappily dressed man’s face which Stan wasn’t ashamed to admit was pants-wettingly terrifying. And that was another thing: had he really just come face-to-face with Bill Cipher? Something left him with no doubt that the answer was _oh yeah buddy. You better watch out._

 _Ford’s not working for Cipher_ anymore _,_ Stan corrected, wincing. He had a feeling that was going to be a sticking point when he broke the news to Carla. 

Speaking of Carla, that’s where he should head.

Although, the Stanmobile had been sitting in that parking spot for almost a day, and if someone had had time to give him a ticket (which was now flapping annoyingly in the wind against his windscreen), it was definitely possible that it could have been noticed by other Cipher Wheel agents. Someone might even be following him right now.

He twisted in his seat, looking over his shoulder, daring someone to be weaving in and out of the rhythms of traffic after him. No one was. They might be being subtle though. He grimaced.

One thing he _could_ be sure of was that he wasn’t being tracked. If Ford had thought the car was safe, then that was good enough for Stan. So, he would drive around the city for a while, making sure he wasn’t being followed, and then he’d head to the FBI field office.

All he had to do until then was pay attention, watch the road, and not panic about Ford.

The traffic lights ahead turned red. He waited.

He tapped his fingers on the wheel. He tapped his foot on the floor. He cracked his knuckles. He breathed through his nose. He gripped the steering wheel and slammed his forehead on the horn, blasting it loudly enough to make the driver in front jump in their seat.

“Moses, Ford, _where are you?!_ ” He yelled.

 

∆

Safety be damned. If Addi was calling him, Fiddleford was going to answer.

“Addi! Are ya alright? What happened? Why weren’t you answering yer phone? Why’re you in Sacramento?”

He unleashed the torrent of questions while simultaneously struggling to put the phone on speaker, position it somewhere it wouldn’t fall and be lost in the depths of the car, and change gears as he rounded a corner.

 _“Don’t worry, I’m fi- I’m not dead,”_ Fiddleford had never been so glad to hear his partner’s voice, but her small stumble in that sentence did not go unnoticed. He would have pressed the point, demanding to know exactly what was going on, what had happened to her, but more pressing things were at hand, such as Addi’s safety. Her next words only reinforced the urgency of the situation.

_“I got an assignment yesterday that I had to be in Sacramento for – an assassination,”_

“What?!”

_“Oh, it’s wonderful! Would you mind if I tried it on? Thaaaank yooouuu- Oh what’s that?!”_

Some heavy breaths came through the phone, and it took a moment for Fiddleford to figure out that Addi had been talking to, and then taking something and running away from, someone else. She was covering or switching out her clothes.

Which meant someone was on her tail.

 _“Yeah, only Jheselbraum didn’t okay it with me,”_ she continued as if nothing had happened.

“Well, Ah’d say so. That is _not_ the way she runs things,”

 _“Thankfully I never went through with it. But the thing is, it was the_ superiors _who gave it to me,”_

There was no need to elaborate. Fiddleford’s face went slack and even though his phone was probably one of the most secure devices on the planet, he didn’t trust himself to voice the obvious. 

Stanford Pines had been running all over the world building a memory device for Bill Cipher that could give him almost limitless power and influence, enabling him to do anything that he wanted. Fiddleford couldn’t contact Jheselbraum, Oracle Division, or anyone in Manhattan. Addi had been ordered to assassinate someone, presumably as part of some sort of set-up. So many things had come to a head recently, and it was clear what the conclusion to this latest one was.

The superiors were corrupt.

Oracle Division was compromised.

As of now, the Cipher Wheel was coming after them.

“Where are ya?”

_“On the – oh, here, let me hold your hat while you get that picture, no really, it’s fine, don’t worry – on the move,”_

“Y’Haven’t been able ta get a hold of the director, have ya?”

_“No. Everything’s been dead since last night,”_

“Same situation here,”

 _“Hello sir, I’m sorry, would it, um, would it be okay if I read the blurb of your book? I’ve just been interested for such a long time and – aw, thank you very mu- oh my gosh, did you_ see _that? Just over there, look, look!”_

More quick breaths, accompanied by running footsteps if Fiddleford listened closely.

“Was that really necessary?” He asked exasperatedly.

 _“If that guy has Cipher Wheel agents on_ his _tail, he’s welcome to come take it back,”_ his friend’s grim reply came. _“_ Please _tell me you have somewhere safe we can meet?”_

Paranoia gripped him even as he replied. What if someone _was_ listening? What if his phone _had_ been hacked? 

“Sacramento FBI field office. Ask fer Senior Special Agent McCorkle. Ah’ll be there soon,”

Too late to worry about that now. His friend needed an extraction, and this was the best he could give her.

_“Got it. And Fidds? If they’ve found me . . . watch out for yourself, too,”_

He hadn’t considered that.

Fiddleford swallowed, attempting to work some moisture back into his suddenly dry mouth. “Stay safe, Addi,”

_“Yeah. You too,”_

Hearing her voice waver slightly, he cut the connection.

 

∆

Carla stared at her computer, open-mouthed.

_“As you can see, the entirety of Manhattan appears to be experiencing a massive power failure, unlike anything seen before. Reports indicated that from approximately seven o’clock last night sections of the city began to systematically experience blackouts until ten o’clock, at which time the entire island was engulfed in darkness. All attempts to restore power have so far failed, and it is speculated that this is due to a series of modified electromagnetic pulses, or EMPs. If so, who set them, and why target Manhattan?_

_“Next up: do you wish you had more ways to waste electricity? Why not invest in-”_

Carla turned the news report off, mind reeling with questions and suspicion. It was just her jumpiness because of the news about Ford, right? This event wasn’t necessarily linked to her case, it could be a completely separate incident, couldn’t it? What was she thinking: this had _nothing_ to do with how she had tracked one of Jheselbraum’s phone calls once and had seen that it came from Manhattan. It was totally different to how Manhattan was probably where Oracle Division’s base of operations was located. It wasn’t involved _whatsoever_ with the fact that the most effective way to start taking Oracle Division out of the game would be to cut it off from everything else. And the fact that the person who would have the most to gain by doing that, as well as the person who would have the means to, was Bill Cipher. 

Her office door clicked opened, Fiddleford hurrying in and shutting it hastily behind himself. He shushed her before she said anything, keeping to the edge of the office until he reached the blinds. Then, as if they were going to bite him, he carefully drew them over the window. Immediately afterwards he turned to the nearest of her shelves and began feeling behind the files.

“I’ve already done a bug sweep,” Carla said.

“And ya haven’t left yer office at all since?”

“No,”

Fiddleford looked relieved.

“What’s with the blinds?” she asked.

The relief vanished, to be replaced by graveness.

“We think Oracle Division’s bin compromised,”

“I knew it!” Carla exclaimed, making him jump. “Sorry.” Her eyes widened as she realised the implications. “Oh, that’s bad. What do we do now?”

“Someone’s after m’partner, so I’ve told her to come here; it’s about the only safe place we have left. We can compare what we know, go from there.” Fiddleford said decisively. “No one can know we’re here, not ‘til we know who’s on our side.” He gave her another serious look.

“This is a lot.” Carla said, raking her hands through her hair as she got up to walk around. “All of a sudden Ford’s a bad guy, Jheselbraum and Oracle Division are out of the loop, freaking _Manhattan_ is down, and the Cipher Wheel’s coming after y-” She froze.

“What is it?”

“The mole.” She looked at Fiddleford in horror. “We haven’t dealt with the agent spying on me yet.” Carla’s eyes widened and she made for the door. “You have to get out, tell your partner to meet somewhere else-”

“Bad idea; if I wasn’t made on th’way in, I could be on the way out.” Fiddleford was obviously thinking quickly, but it seemed like he had no alternatives. “Besides, this’s still the safest place around where we can talk.”

“So we just have to hope nothing bad will happen?” Carla said in disbelief. Most definitely _not_ to her satisfaction, Fiddleford nodded reluctantly.

“Well that’s gone _great_ so far,” she said bitterly.

 

∆

“Just wait over there please, ma’am,” the receptionist politely instructed Addi. She nodded in response, taking a seat while they made a call.

Tensely, she waited.

A building full of FBI agents, and any one of them could be Cipher’s.

 _This is a nightmare,_ she reflected, pulling her stolen hat lower over her face while huddling in her swiped coat and focusing intently on her snatched book as more employees came in. _Yeah, what a way to_ not _look suspicious._

Every second that ticked by wound her tighter, and it would not take a lot to make her release all that tension and fly for the exit. The receptionist was speaking into the phone now, but Addi was too far away to hear what they were saying. The phone was replaced and the seconds kept ticking by. What if they were the mole? What if they’d alerted more agents? What if the Cipher Wheel had seized control of the FBI, had put her and Fiddleford on a wanted list, made them fugitives before they could even begin to process what was hap-

“Miss Martin, thank you for meeting me today,”

Addi lurched to her feet, automatically going to bolt for the door. Making as though to pass off the movement as a shaking out of her limbs, she turned to her addresser.

“Carla McCorkle.” The Latina woman with a flower in her hair introduced herself before adding, “Fergus MacIntyre will be pleased to know you’ve arrived.”

“R-Right. Thank you,” Addi said. She didn’t untense, but she did manage to accompany Agent McCorkle to the elevator with only minimal jerkiness.

The FBI agent was about as stressed as her, which went a long way towards convincing Addi that she could trust her. Clearly Fiddleford had already filled her in on the situation, and she was taking it very seriously.

Attempting to keep up appearances, Carla asked, “How are you?”

Addi actually had to stop, speechless, staring helplessly. Carla looked back at her, pressing the button for the elevator.

“You too, huh?” she sighed.

 

∆

Once they were inside Carla’s office, Addi was immediately enveloped in a tight hug from Fiddleford.

“Yer not dead!” He exclaimed.

“That’s certainly something,” Addi agreed in a muffled voice.

“Yer not fine, either,” he added more quietly. After a moment, Addi agreed to that too.

“We’ll talk about it,” Fiddleford promised.

“Only if it’s to do with the current crisis,” Carla stepped in with an apologetic tinge to her words. “We _really_ need to sort that out.”

Fiddleford gave Addi a pat on the back, pulling out of the embrace. Partially glad for the opportunity to avoid the discussion, and partially not, Addi got her head back in order.

“Sorry. Things’ve been kinda stressful lately,” Fiddleford said matter-of-factly.

“No, it’s understandable. You’re talking to the girl who’s every move has been scrutinised for two weeks,” Carla smiled tiredly.

“No idea who the spy might be?” asked Addi, feeling herself drift back into the rhythm of work.

“Either everyone or no one,” was the dry response. “I even thought my flower was bugged for a while.” She gestured at the one in her hair.

“Is that why it’s missing a few petals?”

“My interrogation was brutal but thorough,” grinned Carla, a little livelier this time. Addi’s mouth twitched as well.

“Fiddleford, you said we should put together what we know?” the FBI agent continued.

“Yeah, yer right,”

Addi took a breath, thinking about where to start. “Well, I guess . . . Bergamo then?”

“Bergamo,” Fiddleford agreed.

“We had a mission to steal Dr Hansen’s latest invention, a material called shimmern. Our superiors-” Addi shivered a little – “wanted to weaponise it, which Dr Hansen wasn’t inclined to do,”

“Yeah, I think I know what happened.” Carla said, frowning and nodding along. “I read an Interpol report on your encounter there with Ford. Plus I made him tell me about it.”

“Ya most certainly are a force ta be reckoned with,” Fiddleford said, impressed.

“Huh. I guess my description _did_ get through to them,” mused Addi.

“It was taken down not long after. Cipher’s work, I imagine,” Carla added.

“Oh,”

“Well from there we had several more encounters with Stanford. All o’ them highly suspicious and improbable,” Fiddleford continued.

“Ford said he wasn’t tracking us, none of it was planned. I think he was telling the truth,” Addi informed him.

“When did ya talk to him?” Fiddleford asked immediately, concerned.

Addi’s heart started beating faster, but Carla brought them determinedly back on course before she could answer.

“What was he doing, if he wasn’t tracking you?”

“Buildin’ something.” Fiddleford paused, seeming reluctant to go on. After a moment, Addi had to prompt him.

“Fidds?” She said gently. “You’re the only one who knows about this bit.”

Her friend cleared his throat, clearing an expression from his face moments before he looked back up at them.

_Was that guilt? Why would he feel guilty?_

“He – ah, he was buildin’ a weapon. He called it a memory gun. Said it extracted memories from whoever it was used on an’ let others see ‘em,”

Carla was dead quiet. “He was going to give Bill Cipher a mind-wiping device? To just use? On _anyone?_ ”

Addi thought it hadn’t been possible to feel worse about starting to fall for – she closed her eyes and corrected. To feel worse about – just _about_ Ford, but it turned out that she was wrong. Yet again.

“That _idiot_.” Carla said with surprising vehemence. “I swear, I’ve known that man since high school and he hasn’t changed a bit.” Despite her coarse words, there was an undercurrent of distress and worry in them.

“This is _unbelievably_ dangerous,” Addi said.

Fiddleford looked shifty for a moment but nodded his concurrence eventually. “’Specially when he said that it could turn ya to stone if it went wrong,”

“It could _what?_ ”

“Ford, you _idiot,_ ” Carla groaned again.

The door opened and shut so quickly there was barely enough time for the intruder to enter. Everyone jumped and reached for their weapons.

“Did someone just say Ford’s an idiot? Because you’re right,” Stan said emphatically, moving to join their gathering.

Fiddleford and Carla relaxed again, but Addi frowned. Something was occurring to her.

“Stan, what the heck?! Where did you _go_?” Carla berated, hugging him tightly.

“Went to see Ford,”

Something not good at all.

Carla glared at him. “And why couldn’t I come with you?”

“Because I wanted to see what was up with him before you and your handcuffs and law got there,” Stan said, like it was obvious.

“So did you find him? What happened? What’d he say?” said Fiddleford.

Addi reached for her gun again. Stan saw her.

“Uh, whoa, you aren’t thinking of-”

She drew it and aimed at him.

“Yep, guess you are,” he finished in dismay.

“Addi, what’re you doing?!” Exclaimed Fiddleford.

“Put the gun down _now!_ ” Ordered Carla.

Addi’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “Am I really the only person who sees this?” Based on everyone’s expressions, yes, she was. “He’s been helping Ford this whole time! _He’s_ a Cipher Wheel agent too!”

 “Oh crap. No, Addi, listen-” Stan, hands raised, trying to placate her while looking very uneasy.

Fiddleford, frantic, waving his arms as if to signal her to stop as well. “Addi, no he doesn’t, he works for the FBI-”

“ _With_ the FBI,” corrected Stan and Carla together, automatically.

“And isn’t there a _mole_ in the FBI?” Addi said, speaking directly to Carla.

She went to reply. Then hesitated.

“Carla, _come on!_ ” Stan said, nervousness colouring his voice.

“Fiddleford, arrest him,” Addi said to her partner. He looked shocked.

“What? No!”

“Fine. Agent McCorkle, do you have handcuffs?”

Carla seemed to snap back to the present. “No! None I’m giving to you, anyway. I _trust_ Stan,” she said fiercely.

“Addi _listen_ to me, Stan _does not work for Cipher_ , he’s our _friend_ ,” Fiddleford protested.

“Well that didn’t stop Ford did it?! He wasn’t supposed to hurt us either and look how that turned out!”

“For Christ’s sake, put the gun down an’ _listen_ to me Addi!”

She didn’t.

“Anything you try with him, you’ll have to do to me first,” Carla said, stepping in front of Stan with the immovability of a steel wall.

Not that that was going to stop Stan from trying, apparently.

“Carla, get out of the way! Are you crazy?” Stan was definitely starting to sweat as he tried to push his fiancée out of the gun’s line of sight, and Addi’s steady hand wavered. There was no way she was going to shoot anyone here, but if they thought she might then she still had some control, and things were rapidly spiralling _out_ of that and _why couldn’t they just see?_

Both Stan’s and Carla’s gazes were fixated on her as they each started trying to push the other behind them, ending up in a tense grappling match that in another situation might have been funny but here it in no way was.

“Addi, I _swear_ I wouldn’t double-cross you like that!” Stan said desperately. “Don’t you remember Russia? I was right there next to you the whole time!”

“Well _Ford_ came to rescue us – and he didn’t have any trouble betraying me later!”

“He didn’t! He didn’t betray you! At least, I don’t think so,”

“What?” Carla momentarily paused her struggle in her confusion.

Addi shook her head furiously, turning back to Fiddleford, dimly noticing that her sight was getting blurry.

“And you think _I’m_ not making sense?” she said disbelievingly.

Fiddleford tore his own stunned stare off Stan and Addi could see him scrambling to get his thoughts in order to try to calm the situation down.

“Addi, Stan was away from the FBI for two weeks, makin’ things difficult for _us!_ He couldn’t’ve been spyin’ on Carla too,”

“That’s right!” Stan agreed vehemently.

Addi gritted her teeth and shook her head, vision getting even blurrier. It – it made sense . . . but no, _she couldn’t take that chance,_ not again, it was too risky. What if he was wrong? What if it all went wrong again?

“Addi, Ah promise, we _can_ trust him,”

“I don’t know _who_ to trust anymore!” she burst out, feeling a warm dampness on one of her cheeks.

Fiddleford was lost for words for a moment. Recovering, he said sorrowfully, “He’s not Ford, Addi. Looks a heck of a lot like him, but he’s not,”

“Agent Marks – Adeline – please. I know what it’s like to be so paranoid and scared you don’t what to do, but you _aren’t_ alone,” Carla implored into the quiet.

Fiddleford crossed unimposingly over to her with an expression like he knew what to do again, how to ameliorate the situation. He held out his hand, keeping her focus on him.

Addi’s sight was momentarily overcome by prickling warmth again. Her friend reassuringly patted her shoulder as she passed over the weapon with a breath. The room seemed to sigh.

Stan and Carla relaxed the holds they had on each other.

“I, uh, here Addi, just, sit down for a while. You could use it,” Stan said, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck as he made for Carla’s desk to retrieve the seat in front of it. Addi heard a muttered _jeez_ as he went, but figured he was probably within his rights to that.

 

∆

Carla glared pointedly at him and he surrendered, going over to get Addi a chair. From his perspective it was understandable that he wasn’t too eager to get near the person who had just threatened him – his heart was still vigorously thumping – but at least Fiddleford had her gun now. She wouldn’t be –

Oh, she _definitely_ wouldn’t be doing that again. As soon as Stan had manoeuvred the chair over to her, Addi slumped into it and he got his first good, clear-headed look at her since entering the room. She looked utterly exhausted, battered and bruised in not just a physical way.

He turned his gaze to Fiddleford, speaking to her and rubbing her back, who looked significantly better but that wasn’t saying much. What the heck had happened? This couldn’t _just_ be because of Ford could it? Well – he glanced at Addi – there was probably a lot to do with him on that front, but he wasn’t going to touch _those_ issues with a ten-foot pole.

Carla exchanged a sympathetic look with him, and explained in an undertone, “The Cipher Wheel more than likely knows who they are, and we’ve been cut off from Oracle Division,”

“What’s Oracle Division?” Stan said blankly.

To his irritation, Carla’s jaw dropped.

“Hey, it’s not like I’m a super-secret spy like the rest of you apparently are, am I?” he huffed. “You might not have noticed, but that means none of you, Ford included, are all that open to me about your super-secret spy stuff,”

“Right, right, yeah.” Carla rubbed her forehead. “Adeline and Fiddleford work for Oracle Division, which is, like, the Cipher Wheel’s arch-enemy. Ultraman and Alex Aluthor style.”

“Wouldn’t the Cipher Wheel be Oracle Division’s arch-enemy? Usually the bad guy’s the arch-enemy,”

“I think they’re probably each other’s arch-enemies,”

“Makes sense. Who are we, then?”

“You can be the damsel in distress,” sniggered Carla.

“What?! Well you’re the useless police chief,”

“Oi!” She poked him in the stomach. Stan surrendered.

He didn’t want to ask this, but he went ahead anyway. Pulling that band-aid off quickly was probably best.

“You didn’t really think I was a mole, did you?”

Carla turned to him quickly, concern in her eyes – which immediately reformed into a flat stare.

“My stress levels have been constantly high since all this began, Stan, and they’ve only gotten more so since I learned that apparently I’ve been under surveillance for who knows how long. I think a second-long paranoid slip-up can be forgiven,”

“ _You’ve been under surveillance?!_ ” Stan said, voice rising well above their previously hushed tones. _I swear, if I ever get my hands on whatever little cretin’s been SPYING on MY GIRL –_

Carla winced. “You didn’t know that either?”

“No!”

“Well, I am,” she sighed. Then she stepped closer to him and said seriously, taking his face in her hands, “But I _do_ trust you. I promise,”

“Really?” He had to make sure.

“I’m marrying you, aren’t I?” She grinned.

At that, a flicker of the excitement he’d felt last night returned to him. “Yeah, you are,” he said, a little giddily.

Fiddleford had finished convincing Addi that she was safe. Jeez, things must be so much worse than Stan was getting if that was necessary. Fiddleford stood up from his crouch in front of Addi, and Addi lifted her head out of her hands.

“I’m so sorry Stan,” she said, a harrowed expression on her face.

It really _shouldn’t_ be that easy to get back in his good graces.

“Hey, it’s not like you’re the only person to have ever pulled a gun on me and accused me of treachery.” He dismissed. “And you only wanted to _arrest_ me.”

“Stan, did Ah here ya right before? You don’t think Ford betrayed us?” Fiddleford asked.

“Yeah, how do you figure that?” Carla frowned. “He’s _definitely_ a Cipher Wheel agent.”

“Yeah, he definitely-” he faltered – “was.”

The significance was not lost on anyone.

“Was?” repeated Addi in a low voice.

“Well, he wasn’t when we had to fight our way out of the building. The place was crawling with Cipher Wheel agents, and _none_ of them were acting friendly towards us,”

Carla was the first to start putting it together. “He tried to leave.” She whistled. “Bet that didn’t go over well.”

“I’ve got a bullet wound that says it didn’t,” Stan agreed vehemently, gesturing at his shoulder. Great. Now that he was thinking about it, it was hurting again.

“Damn it!” shouted Addi. “Why did I leave? Why the _heck_ did I leave? Regardless of whose side he was on, I should have still brought him in! Arrested him! What was I thinking?” She demanded of the room at large. Uncomfortably, Stan noticed that she had furious tears brimming in her eyes again. As soon as she felt them she dashed them away.

“Addi-” Started Fiddleford, going to rest a hand on her shoulder. She shook him off.

“I _knew_ something wasn’t adding up, I _knew_ it, and I didn’t _listen!_ ” She raged. “And then I – I _left!_ ” She shot to her feet, pacing agitatedly, wiping her eyes again, clenching and unclenching her fists. It looked like she’d forgotten she wasn’t alone. Stan didn’t think it mattered to her either way. Then what she’d said caught up to him.

_She was there with Ford?_

Fiddleford and Carla both looked just as surprised at that, so it didn’t seem as though he’d been left out of the loop on _this_ , luckily.

Did he feel happy that Ford had finally gotten a girlfriend? Did he feel angry that she hadn’t stayed with him to help him when Cipher showed up? One look at her face told him that no, he didn’t. She had that covered on her own, but also, it wasn’t like she could have predicted everything that had happened afterwards.

“I just _left_ him there, oh good job Addi, what a flawless plan, threaten to call Oracle Division when you _know_ you can’t get through. He said he cared and then I just _left_ him to be – be attacked, and, and-” Fiddleford grabbed her arm and brought her pacing to a stop, trying to reassure her.

“Addi, it’s not your fault, ya can’t be blamed for drawing the wrong conclusions in this-” he searched for a way to describe it – “this craptastic mess,”

Addi stared at him, then started nodding heatedly, less angry at herself and more at Ford. Stan could tell because he was feeling a little like that too.

“That _knucklehead_. He was _convinced_ the Cipher Wheel were the good guys! Which means . . .” Her resolve crumbled as soon as it had appeared. “He wasn’t expecting an attack. He didn’t know what was happening either,”

Coming forward, Carla patted her shoulder as comfortingly as she could.

“Probably not,” were her wise words of reassurance. Stan winced. Even _he_ could’ve come up with something more helpful.

“But I don’t think he’d blame you,” she added, looking at Stan for confirmation.

“Ford? You kidding?” He laughed slightly and told Addi, “No way. I mean, he’s the one who’s been telling me to ‘think critically’ since the ninth grade.”

Carla rolled her eyes at him.

Addi kneaded her forehead. “I should have _been_ there, I should have helped him . . .”

“Addi, ya can’t feel guilty. It won’t help in the least, and we need ta keep moving forward, figuring this out,” Fiddleford admonished.

“Easier said than done,” Addi told him bitterly.

“Addi,” Fiddleford said, and there was a change in his tone, “Ah should be feelin’ guiltier than you.” He was clearly making a great effort to force the words out. “If it weren’t fer me, Stanford wouldn’t even have that memory gun,”

Fiddleford looked like he was really suffering there, forehead creased and anguish rolling off him, so Stan felt a little bad that he was completely lost again.

“Memory gun?” he said blankly.

“What Ford was running all over the world finding materials for,” Carla informed him.

“Really?! Another thing everyone knew but me?!” Stan exploded.

“Shhh! This is emotional!”

“Ah could have stopped him then and there, as soon as he showed me those blueprints, as soon as he told me what it was.” Fiddleford soldiered on. “But . . . Ah honestly thought it wasn’t that bad an idea,”

“You _what?_ ” said Addi, aghast.

“Ah thought it might help!” Fiddleford said, stricken. “Ya’d be able to get at the truth so much easier if you could see people’s memories – and the memory gun would allow that! It replicates them and keeps a copy in a detachable cylinder. With it, the justice system would be better, corruption could be found out sooner – the erasin’ part might even help with traumatic experiences!”

“That’s just about the unhealthiest thing I’ve ever heard,” Stan stated.

Fiddleford looked at him in mingled defensiveness and shame. “Well, Ah suppose it hardly matters now. I didn’t realise he was workin’ for Cipher, and here we are now,”

“Fidds, you can’t blame yourself,” Addi muttered after a moment.

“Exactly,” Carla agreed, pointedly fixating on her. “It’s useless, and we’ve still got a crisis to deal with.” She squeezed Addi’s shoulder and gave Fiddleford a reassuring pat on his.

“You’re right.” Addi glanced at Fiddleford, and he gave a weary nod, rubbing his eyes under his glasses as if it would give him new sight and focus.

“You’re right,” she repeated, “we need to deal with this first. We need to stop blaming ourselves and start working through this: or better yet, blaming the people actually behind this. The ones who are after us – and Ford!” Pacing decisively again, Addi smacked her fist into her palm, adopting the air of a commanding officer.

“We need a way to contact Oracle Division. We need to find out if Jheselbraum is alright, and where Ford is. We need to figure out what the Cipher Wheel plans to do next, keep out of their grip, and take. Them. Down!” She punctuated each word with another punch, reaching the end of her pacing track and whirling to face them again.

“Are you with me?” she demanded fiercely.

Personally, Stan thought it was getting a bit dramatic, but other than that, if it meant he got to hit more of the people who had manipulated, hurt, and tried to kill his brother, for _years_ , leaving him a terrified, desperate, neurotic mess who might well be permanently on the edge of a panic attack right now for all Stan knew, who was deluded into thinking nowhere was safe for him, and who almost certainly was not capable of protecting _himself_ never mind Stan (seriously, _what_ had he been thinking?), then hell yeah. He was with her.

“Then let’s kick some Cipher butt!”

The door opened behind her.

“HA!” Addi shouted, slamming her fist into the intruder’s face and knocking him flat to the floor.

“Oooooh,” winced Stan, Carla, and Fiddleford.

Horrified, Addi helped the man up, frantically saying, “Holy crap, I am so sorry!”

“You okay, Wexler?” Carla said.

“I’m fine,” Wexler grumbled, straightening up and shooting Addi a very disgruntled glare. As he did so, he let his hand fall away from his face.

Stan could _feel_ the room freeze as he, Fiddleford, and Addi got a good look at his face. He was suddenly _really_ glad that he had kept looking at that list of Cipher Wheel symbols for a little while longer after Carla had stopped.

There was no way that “X” over Wexler’s eye could just coincidentally look like one of them. Especially not if both the Oracle Division agents thought the same.

In less than a second, the FBI’s spy was laid out on the floor again, unconscious this time from a quick jab from Stan.

“What was that for?!” Exclaimed Carla, leaping to the still-open door and shutting it as quickly and quietly as she could.

“He’s on the list of Cipher Wheel agents,” Fiddleford explained hurriedly. “That scar looks exactly like one of the signatures,”

“ _Wexler’s_ the spy?” The expressions that crossed Carla’s face transitioned smartly through surprise, disbelief, glee, guilt, and acceptance. “Wow. I didn’t think it was possible for me to like him even less.” She made for her desk, pulling a pair of handcuffs out and wasting no time in fixing her former partner’s hands behind his back. Stan knew Carla too well to think he was imagining it when she seemed to relish in pressing Wexler’s face none too gently into the unvacuumed floor near her desk - not that he was objecting. Stan was gritting his teeth just at the  _thought_ of this man watching Carla in everything she did for so long. 

“This _whole_ time,” she muttered self-depreciatingly. Then Addi cleared her throat and gave her a meaningful look.

“Yeah, I thought you were done blaming yourselves,” Stan reminded Carla.

The corner of her mouth twitched as she stood up.

“‘Yourselves’?” she inquired.

“Yep. It’s not like _I’ve_ done anything I need to blame myself for,”

Not true. There was _plenty_ Stan could start feeling awful about, starting with how if he had paid more attention to the state his brother was in he might not have let himself be drugged and Ford might be here with him now. But if there was one thing he had learned, it was that shit happened sometimes. And you just had to deal with it and keep going as best you could – at least until you were in a safe enough space not to do anything _more_ you’d regret, if you really couldn’t help it.

“Alright,” Carla said decisively. “Now that we’re all-” she glanced at Stan, then gave a half-shrug – “ _pretty much_ on the same page, we should start sorting this out. Until Wexler wakes up and I can interrogate him, I think the best way to find Ford is to announce him as missing, alert the police and the media, and get a manhunt going. Unless anyone has any other-?”

“Wait a minute!” Stan interrupted. “I haven’t told you happened when I found Ford.”

They waited expectantly. He turned specifically to address Addi and Fiddleford.

“So the bad news is, Bill Cipher was there,”

Carla gasped. Fiddleford’s jaw dropped and Addi went dead white.

“Are you sure it was him?” demanded Carla, recovering – although she was standing ramrod straight, as though three hundred electric volts had just zapped through her.

Stan thought about the snarl and the burning gaze he’d seen on the man’s face, the strange weapon he’d been _so close_ to pulling the trigger of on Ford.

“Yeah. I’m sure,”

“So what’s the good news?” said Fiddleford, tapping his fingers on his leg in agitation.

“I decked him and he didn’t get me back,”

Now that he said it, it didn’t really even out the massive downside it was to have Bill Cipher himself in the city and after them. After Ford.

Not that he hadn’t been feeling that way before, but all of a sudden Stan really, _really_ needed his brother back beside him.

 

∆

He had made it to the safe house. That was something.

_Not forever._

For long enough. Bill did not know about it, and neither would Ford if it had not been for a passing interaction with a CIA operative who had met him inside it once.

Everything he would need for the next few hours was in the bathroom.

_He’s in my head._

He would be able to lay low for a little while longer – afterwards, that was. 

Unwittingly, Ford swallowed and blinked some sweat out of his eyes.

There would be enough time to recover and figure out his next move.

He almost laughed. What the hell was he supposed to do next? He couldn’t avoid Bill forever, Oracle Division thought he was a threat, and even if he accepted help, which he wouldn’t, that would place whoever helped him in danger. He would not contact Stan. He would not contact Addi. He would not contact Fiddleford.

_He’s in my head._

Ford faltered. He had told Stan that he would call him as soon as he could. If he didn’t, he knew his brother would be going half out of his mind with worry before long, and he would probably do his best to find Ford regardless of what Ford himself wanted. In that case, he would call Stan and – somehow – convince him to stay away and to stay safe. 

_He’s in my head._

This was useless. All of this thinking was to do with . . . after. And there was not going to _be_ an after unless he stopped stalling and got this over with.

The scalpel trembled in his hand. Ford shook himself out of a staring contest with his own reflection.

_He’s in my head._

Breathing deeply, he felt again for the almost intangible texture of scar tissue at the base of his skull.

 _Not for much longer,_ he promised himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't until I was writing this truly ridiculous amount of dialogue that I realised how out of the loop Stan was XD
> 
> An origin story for a piece of dialogue: in the rough draft, I had Stan bursting into Carla's office just as everyone was discussing the truly large amount of stuff they didn't know, like if Bill Cipher even actually existed, and screaming "BILL IS REAL I JUST DECKED HIM" because that is the only way to truly verify whether something is real. Also, Fiddleford would have clapped.
> 
> Featuring: the psychological impacts of being betrayed by someone you trusted with all your heart. Oh no, now we're crying.
> 
> Spy trope no. 60: on the run, moving fast, stealing clothes - y'know, the usual  
> Spy trope no. 61: the main spy people are taken out of the picture, leaving our heroes Alone  
> Spy trope no. 62: all the spies meeting up and going well shit, guess it's up to us to save the world  
> Spy trope no. 63: a spy distrusts another spy and threatens them with a gun


	12. The Director

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, there's only two chapters left to go! I can't believe this! Thank you to everyone who has supported this so far, who has left me comments to read and laugh over, who has shown their appreciation and wanted me to continue; it's meant so much to me, and I am so grateful. I look forward to finishing this, but just a heads-up, uni starts again next week so updates might slow down again.

**Sacramento, California (USA)** ∆

Seated at the kitchen bench of the cosy little apartment he regretted renting for Adeline Marks, Bill lazily noted the location Pines’ tracker was broadcasting. That annoying mishap in the lobby had slowed down operations a fair amount, and the two agents who had _not_ been inconveniently shot in the head were still to send word that their latest mission was a success. Once that was done, then they could go pick up Pines. Honestly, if _one more thing_ went wrong, Bill wouldn’t be waiting for Stanford to be found to test the memory gun.

The green line on the graph his phone displayed was climbing higher and higher. It didn’t look as though it was going to level out anytime soon.

The microwave beeped. Bill carelessly poured the steaming popcorn into a bowl.

On the edge of the report, sensors started blinking. Pulling up the schematic of Pines’ body with a flick of a finger, he idly glanced at it, but was half-focused on the popcorn, which was burning hot. Nice.

The outline of the body on the screen was an overall blank white colour. Near the top of the spine, around about where it joined to the skull, the colour was gradually becoming more vibrant, filled in with a bright, painful red that spread out from an epicentre, growing paler at the edges. Bill grinned, munching on the popcorn.

“Wow, fear and pain, right around where that implant is. Wonder what you could be up to, Fordsy,” he drawled.

The red deepened. He didn’t think it had ever been that shade before. Pines must be in a _lot_ of pain.

“Ha! Hilarious! Wish I could be there in person,” Bill laughed, a vicious twist to it.

The spreading stopped. The whole screen froze. When he flicked back to the graph, all the colour-coded lines had ceased their progress.

 _Signal lost_ , informed an alert.

Bill stood up and stretched, putting the phone away.

“Well, looks like you won’t be going anywhere for a while, anyway. See ya soon, IQ,”

Idly, he turned his attention to the journal Pines had taken to writing in and flipped to the last entry. His eyes skimmed across a few lines, and then a disbelieving grin spread across his face.

“Oh, Stanford, Stanford, Stanford. You _really_ weren’t meant for this line of work.” The book snapped shut. “I’ll have _hours_ of fun with this.”

 

∆

“So when do we start looking for Ford?” asked Addi from where she and Fiddleford where rooting through the unconscious Agent Wexler’s pockets for anything that might be helpful to them.

Carla rubbed her forehead indecisively. “As soon as possible, ideally. But we still have to deal with Wexler. I should get him down to an interrogation room as soon as possible, but then I also have to tell my boss, and process him – oh, and not to mention convince my boss that he really is the mole and that I haven’t just finally gotten fed up with him.” She threw Wexler’s prone form a dirty look. “Which I have, actually. So, until I can do all of that, Ford has to wait,” she finished.

 _So we could be here for hours,_ Stan thought, restlessly shifting in his chair. Cipher could be catching up to his brother at any moment. They had to find him, and it _had_ to be soon. Unfortunately, the only way they had of doing that was through the FBI, or Ford himself.

 _He_ said _he’d call me._ That thought had been frantically spinning across his mind every few minutes for the past hour or so. But he hadn’t _._ Whatever he needed to do was taking far too long for Stan’s comfort. Was it even possible for Ford to manage whatever it was? Considering the state he’d been in, Stan was hoping it was something really simple, like grabbing a drink. But this was Ford. Knowing him, it was more likely that he meant taking down the Cipher Wheel single-handedly.

Stan groaned aloud and Carla looked at him in concern.

“It’s nothing, just thinking . . .”

Thinking about how badly he needed Ford to call him. Seriously, how hard was it to pick up the phone? Ford wouldn’t be so stubborn as to – yes. Yes he would be. And if their roles were reversed, Stan would probably be equally opposed to bringing Ford anymore into this, but they weren’t, so Ford _should damn well call him –_

Stan fumbled for the vibrating phone in his pocket, saw Ford’s name and the blurry picture of him holding up both the middle fingers on his right hand while choking on a red-hot chilli that Stan had snuck onto his plate, and answered.

“Finally! _It’s about damn time, you knucklehead!_ ”

 _“Stan?”_ Ford’s voice sounded very weak.

“Yeah, I’m here. Are you okay? What’s happening?” Stan said, all frustration immediately vanishing.

_“I’m not even sure where to start with that,”_

That was a good sign, right? He still had a sense of humour, so it couldn’t be too serious, right?

“Are you okay?” he asked. Everyone else in the office was so still and quiet it was like they were trying to hear the other half of the conversation. Wait, they were spies: they were undoubtedly trying to hear the other half of the conversation.

_“I – I think I’m going to need some help with the stitches, but for the most part, yes,”_

“Stitches?!” Yelped Stan.

 _“Stitches,”_ agreed Ford.

“Where are you?” Stan demanded.

Ford didn’t even try to protest needing help, which made Stan _very_ nervous, not least because he didn’t know if that was a good or bad sign.

Ford rattled off some coordinates. _“El Dorado National Forest,”_

“Sounds good to me,”

 _“Thought you’d appreciate it. No actual gold though, just firs,”_ The laugh he gave was breathy and pained and especially worrying because it wasn’t even a good joke.

“Well, in that case we won’t stay long,”

_“Probably for the best. I don’t think I got it out quick enough,”_

Another thing Ford would be explaining properly when Stan got to him.

“Hey, don’t worry about it; I’ll be there soon, you just sit tight,”

_“Stan . . . thank you,”_

He hung up and was already heading for the door before Addi stopped him. 

“Was that Ford? Is he alright?” She asked.

Deciding not to answer the second question until he had some definite answers, Stan replied, “Yeah, it was him. He’s in the national forest, I’m going to get him now,”

Addi nodded and motioned to Fiddleford, who made to march to the door as well. “Okay, let’s go,”

“Whoa, whoa, wait!” Carla said, grabbing Fiddleford’s sleeve. “You can’t go! We still need to deal with Wexler and tell the FBI know what’s going on, which means you two Oracle Division agents need to stay here,”

Addi looked at Fiddleford, frustrated and conflicted. “Wouldn’t one of us-?” she began in vain hope.

Fiddleford shook his head in reluctant decisiveness. “It’d be more convincin’ if we’re both here. Furthermore, in the event of a crisis – which this is – we’re under orders to stay safe and in position until we get word from the director,”

Addi sighed. Turning to Stan, she said hesitantly, “You’ll tell him – tell him that I . . . think he’s being a real inconvenience?”

“That’s putting it mildly, but sure,”

 

∆

Carla and Fiddleford steadied the unconscious Wexler in his chair in the interrogation room while Addi cuffed his wrists to the table in front of him. As it turned out, having an entire city blacked out and announcing that you know the identity of the probable perpetrator would speed up whatever you want to do, a tip Carla would have to remember.

Wexler slumped over again as soon as they let go of him. They shrugged and left, adjourning to the monitoring room behind the two-way mirror.

Getting impatient already, Carla stretched her neck restlessly. She wondered if there was an adrenaline injection around that she could repurpose for Wexler – or maybe herself – with her newfound authority. Probably not.

“So is it like, Special Agent Marks, or Senior Special Agent Marks . . . ?” she asked Addi.

“Hmm? Oh, no. Just ‘Agent’. It adds to the mysteriousness of it all. Plus, we don’t have a lot of personnel, so there’s not a lot of need for rank at the moment,” Addi informed her with an equal weariness that told Carla she could probably do with an injection as well.

“Huh,”

Beyond the window, Wexler started snoring.

“Stan sure knows how to hit someone,” Fiddleford observed as Carla rolled her eyes and went to finally wake him up.

 

 **El Dorado National Forest, California (USA)** ∆

A CIA safe-house (safe-hut?) in the woods, made to look like a scientific research station, far off the beaten track so as not to attract unwanted attention, was Ford’s current place of residence.

It had already taken far too long to drive there, so when Stan finally found it, he nearly took the door off its hinges as he barrelled through the entrance.

“Ford, you idiot, why isn’t this place locked?!”

“I didn’t think it would do much good either way, so I didn’t bother,” came the reply. Ford’s voice was stronger than it had been on the phone an hour ago, which was a relief.

“Considering the way you came in, I was right,”

Ford was partway through leaping up from a moth-eaten couch and reaching for his gun, looking haunted. It seemed to take him a lot of effort to sit back again, weapon untouched.

Stan closed the door. “What the hell were you th-” He stopped when he saw the bloody pillow Ford’s head had been lying on.

“Stitches?”

“Stitches,” Ford confirmed.

“In your _head?_ ”

His brother made an iffy motion with his hand. “Neck, too,”

Stan tore his gaze from the pillow, badly concealing his horror (it had been written all over his face practically since coming through the door) and letting his frustrations known.

“For God’s sake Ford, _why?_ ”

Ford had been trying to maintain a nonchalant, detached, in-control appearance (also very badly), but as soon as Stan demanded that answer he blanched, posture stiffening as though his insides had frozen, breath hitching. He reached into one of his pockets and, as Stan walked over to see it, handed it to him.

It looked like . . . well, something espionage-y that was for sure. A kind of spider, or squid-ish thing? Lots of little tendrils came out from a central body. The long, metallic legs were so thin they might have been threads of silk. The body was tiny, so it should not have seemed as sinister as it did. Examining it closer, he saw . . . flecks of blood still staining the shiny metal.

“This was in your head?”

Ford nodded curtly. “I don’t know the exact extent of what it did, but it certainly monitored chemical balances in my brain, hormone levels: my emotions,” he conveyed tightly. “It most likely also had a tracking function – or-” Ford raised his eyes to the ceiling, helplessly shrugging – “maybe it still does. I was hoping it would deactivate as soon as I took it out, but I have no idea if it’s still operational,”

Stan immediately dropped it to the floor, slamming the heel of his boot down on top. When he picked it up again, it was unmarked. Ford didn’t look surprised.

“I was exhausted, I barely got to the couch after-” he swallowed and shook his head – “after. I couldn’t do much of anything, let alone get myself somewhere safer. Bi- Cipher could be on his way _right now_ , and we’re sitting ducks, just _waiting_ for him-”

Stan could see him spiralling, and jumped in.

“I don’t think so. Last we saw, he was in Sacramento, and he would have had to do some scrambling to coordinate those clowns he sent after us.” Ford didn’t share his grin. “It took me a little under forty minutes to get here, so if he was coming, he would’ve got here at around the same time, if you tried getting this out as soon as you got here.”

“I did,” Ford said quickly, desperate to latch onto any rational comfort Stan could give.

“Well he’s not here now, so . . . ” prompted Stan.

“He must have had something else to take care of,”

“ _Or,_ you got this thing out before he saw where you were. Or it never had a tracking device in the first place,” If that second one was true, Stan would find the remains of his mullet and eat it. By the looks of it, Ford would too.

“That’s not even the worst of it,” Ford said in a cracked voice, fixedly staring at the insidious little device in Stan’s hand. “It could have done other things. It could have had a kill switch. It would be easy enough to conceal a toxin in there, or have it produce an electric pulse through my brain or down my spinal cord.” The words spilled from his mouth unstoppably, like now that he had started he couldn’t stop. “It could have been remote controlled. It most likely was. Bill showed me the _progress report_ of my emotions for the past month, all contained on his _phone_. Like it was an _app._ He could have compelled me to do _anything,_ Stan. Maybe he has been. What if it was influencing my actions? What if he’s been _making_ me do things? That _thing_ has been in my head for two years _at least,_ probably ever since I designed it, and I can’t think of a single instance when it could have been implanted. What if this isn’t the only time he’s done something like this? . . .” and on and on. After a point Stan couldn’t avoid just hugging him as tightly as he possibly could, Ford clinging back just as desperately, letting out every awful, paranoid thought that had crossed his mind in the past few hours until his voice broke and he couldn’t talk anymore.

Stan hadn’t had any thoughts, in particular, about Bill Cipher before now. Nothing beyond _“okay, he’s a bad guy,”_ and the more recent _“how do we take him out?”_ But this . . . this made him want to punch the guy into oblivion, because Bill Cipher had made one fatal mistake: he’d messed with Stan’s family.

 

 **Sacramento, California (USA)** ∆

“Where’s Cipher’s base of operations?”

“You don’t really think he’d tell me that, do you?”

“How does he plan on using the memory gun?”

“I’d assume to wipe someone’s memories,”

“Whose memories?”

“As I’m sure you’re smart enough to figure out, he didn’t exactly treat me as his own personal evil diary of secrets: ‘Dear Ivan, today I plan to erase so-and-so’s mind-’”

“Then what _use_ were you to him? He kept you around for _some_ reason!”

“And there’s the infamous temper of Agent McCorkle-”

“ _Senior Special Agent McCorkle_ ,”

“-I suppose this is how you earnt the nickname ‘Hotseat’, is it? Because it’s what you put your suspects in?”

“Why have you been spying on me?”

“Because Bill Cipher told me t-”

“Who are the other Cipher Wheel operatives in the FBI?”

“The _entire_ Federal Bureau of Investigation? There’s quite a lot. I don’t think you have time for-”

“I’ll settle for just the ones in this building,”

“Not feeling safe, are you?”

“The names,”

“If you think you’re in danger, that’s wise. There’s a quite a lot of damage even a single enemy agent can-”

“Thank you for cooperating,”

“I – what?”

Grinning, Carla stood up and left.

 

 **El Dorado National Forest, California (USA)** ∆

Stan couldn’t keep from swearing when he saw the job Ford had done of sewing himself up – “sewing” being used in the loosest possible sense of the word.

“Have you _ever_ done this before?” he asked incredulously, examining the wound.

The slice itself was fairly clean, and Ford had thankfully said that he’d sterilised everything before starting. The implant had been buried near the join of the base of his skull to his spine, enabling the device to worm its tentacles fairly easily into Ford’s brain. Stan didn’t want to think about how much it must have hurt to pull out.

“ _Yes,_ but it’s a little hard to see the back of your own head, Stanley. And I didn’t have an abundance of mirrors around,” Ford answered, miffed.

The slice was still seeping a little onto his brother’s shirt collar, joining the already bloody drips in a path down his back.

“Urrrgh,” Stan said.

“Are you going to help me, or just gawk?” Came Ford’s impatient voice.

Deciding it was probably best not to mention that he didn’t have much experience in sewing anything more than felt letters onto clothes, Stan went to the cramped bathroom to sterilise the needle again and get some more pain medication. The first (substantial) load was already wearing off, according to Ford.

“So, you get betrayed and your first thought is to go hole up in a shack in the woods?” Joked Stan, trying to make some light out of the situation.

He was glad to see Ford attempt a weak smile. “It’s not my first time. That’s how I ended up in Gravity Falls, if you remember,”

The bathroom was decorated with bloody six-fingered handprints. Stan spent some time swearing in there, too.

“Are you okay?” asked Ford.

“Partially convinced a ghost’s gonna come out and murder me, but yeah,” Stan said monotonously, zeroing in on the task at hand and doing his best to ignore the state of his surroundings.

“No, I’m talking about earlier. When I left you in the car. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Out for ten minutes exactly – good timing,”

He heard Ford sigh in relief. “Good. I’m – I’m glad to hear that. Although, credit for good timing should go to you. You saved my life in that hotel, Stan. More than once,”

Stan paused in his cleaning of the needle. “Yeah, well, what else am I good for?” He coughed awkwardly. “Been sticking up for my nerdy brother since we were ten. I’m not gonna stop now,”

“I should have told you from the start . . .”

“Hey, enough of that!” He said sharply, exiting the bathroom with the items. “I’ve already gone through all the guilt stuff with Carla and Addi and Fidds. We all agreed it wasn’t helping anyone,”

“Addi.” Ford looked up at him as he sat down. “Is she okay?”

Whatever expression was on Stan’s face at that moment was not a good one. Ford was horror-struck.

“No, no, no, nothing too bad!” Stan said hurriedly before Ford could run to the door, fitness to travel be damned. “A few bruises, scrapes, nothing she wouldn’t have given back ten times over. I mean, she was pretty freaked out when she thought you were working for Cipher, but after that she got . . . less trigger-happy,” he finished lamely.

A crease appeared between Ford’s eyebrows. “Wait . . . she _doesn’t_ think I’m a Cipher Wheel operative?”

“Not since I told everyone that the head honcho was trying to kill you,”

A faint light arose in his eyes.

“She’s still pretty pissed at you, though,” Stan added.

Ford winced. “I deserve that. Thank you again, Stanley, for telling them. I suppose things could be worse,”

Stan motioned for him to turn around so he could look at the poor sewing job again. He cast around for a subject to take Ford’s mind off the possibly even poorer job he was about to do and came up with something perfect.

“They could be,” Stan suggested offhandedly.

It only took Ford a few seconds to see what he was getting at.

“Do _not_ tell Ma,” he warned.

“Don’t think I won’t,” retorted Stan.

“How would you even broach the subject? ‘Hi, I know we haven’t talked in a while, guess what Ford’s been up to: helping a madman take over the world!’”

They both went a bit quiet at that.

 _Oh boy. Where do we start with this one?_ Stan thought.

Just as he was about to begin undoing the stitches, someone knocked at the front door.

They stilled.

Ford leapt for his gun again, on his feet with it pointed at the door in less than a second. Not having a weapon on him at the moment (his stolen gun had been dropped somewhere in the depths of the Stanmobile when Ford drugged him), Stan readied a fist, and moved slowly and silently over to the entrance. Ford nodded when he looked back at him. He wrenched the door open.

A tall woman smiled friendlily at them. “Hello, Stanley, Stanford. It’s good to finally meet you. My name is Jheselbraum, you need some help, and I understand that this is something of a peace offering between you two.” She pushed a box of cereal into a speechless Stan’s hands.

 

 **Sacramento, California (USA)** ∆

“Am I missin’ something?” said Fiddleford, baffled. “How was that a successful interrogation?”

“Well,” Carla began, leaning against the wall and nodding at the window, through which Wexler was very obviously replaying the conversation in his head to see where he’d gone wrong, “he’s clearly not used to having to think for himself. Practically every time he answered he gave me something I didn’t know about.” She started listing things off, noticing Addi’s expression grow more and more impressed, and Fiddleford’s become more and more awed.

“Cipher doesn’t have any more spies in the building: Wexler was the only one. He only does what Cipher tells him to do, so it’s unlikely that he knows anything more of importance, which also unfortunately means that he’s not going to be of any more use to us. However,” she turned to Addi. “You said that Ford kept going on about working alone, having no involvement with other agencies, people, et cetera?”

Addi nodded, intrigued.

“Well, that’s not the case with Wexler, here. He knows all about the activities of other Cipher Wheel agents. I’d say that Cipher was trying to keep Ford isolated so he could keep tighter control of him – which brings up the question of why he allowed him to work with Stan,”

Smiling ruefully, Addi said, “I doubt Cipher got a choice in the matter. In my experience, when Ford sets his mind to a goal, he usually achieves it,”

“Well then, this means we’ve got more evidence that they’re not working together anymore,” Fiddleford said decisively, “which we’re goin’ ta need if we want Ford to come through this without being arrested by every law enforcement agency on the planet,”

“What do we do with Wexler in the meantime?” asked Carla professionally.

Addi and Fiddleford looked at each other, silently deliberating. As Oracle Division operatives, they had jurisdiction over the Cipher Wheel investigation, as much as Carla hated to admit it.

“We’ll leave it up to you,” Addi said finally.

“You’ll what?”

“We don’t exactly have a cell to lock him in at th’ moment. Oracle Division’s down – for the moment – but someone still has to be a bulwark against Cipher. Just how long’ve you been investigating him and his organisation?” Fiddleford asked.

“Uh . . . close to eight months,” Carla said blankly, unable to quite process what was happening. Was she really being given permission to act as their director?

“There you go. You sound perfect for the job,” Addi said warmly. “You know this case inside and out,”

“I – um.” Carla stared. In the end, all she could say was, “Okay,”

“So, how should we be proceedin’-” started Fiddleford.

“- Acting Director McCorkle?” finished Addi.

Carla straightened.

 

 **El Dorado National Forest, California (USA)** ∆

 _So this is Addi and Fiddleford’s boss,_ Stan thought, watching as Jheselbraum finished stitching Ford up in a much neater fashion than either he or his brother could have managed.

Once she had finished, she left the couch and sat at the rickety wooden table, Ford following. Stan opted to remain on his feet. Call him paranoid, but he was still fairly suspicious of her. He’d first heard her name only a couple of hours ago, when Fiddleford and Addi had spent some time trying to get him as up to speed as everyone else.

“So, what are you doing here?” he asked finally.

“I’m answering questions,” Jheselbraum said matter-of-factly. _Smart ass._

Her eyes glinted in amusement, like she knew exactly what Stan was thinking.

“I’ll also be asking some,” she added, turning to Ford.

Ford didn’t look like he entirely trusted her either.

“You want to know about Bill Cipher, what I did while working for him, and what he’s up to now. You also want to arrest me on a multitude of charges,” he said flatly.

Scratch that, Ford didn’t trust her _at all_.

“On the contrary,” Jheselbraum said, smiling serenely, “I already know most of that, and I don’t have the slightest intention of locking you up in a small dark cell somewhere where you will never again see the light of day,”

 _Well, that is uncomfortably specific._ Stan narrowed his eyes at her, and then it occurred to him that she might be making a joke. It was _really_ hard to tell.

“Then what do you want?” Ford asked, still in a toneless, unsurprised voice.

“I want you to be safe,” she said gently, with such genuine concern that the brothers were caught off balance. “I know what he’s done to you. I know what he’s tried to do to you.” She looked at Stan. “I know what he’s done to so many people in the world. I want to keep it safe.”

“It?”

“The world,”

There was an uncertain silence, in which Jheselbraum sat unabashed and relaxed with her legs patiently crossed.

“You don’t aim small, do you?” Stan said sarcastically.

“I suppose not,” she grinned. “At the moment, keeping the world safe entails the defeat of Bill Cipher and the Cipher Wheel organisation, now more than ever. He is in possession of the memory gun, and he has all but sidelined Oracle Division for the foreseeable future,”

“How?”

“He’s taken our headquarters out of the equation, along with the rest of Manhattan,”

Ford’s head jerked up in shock, and Stan stiffened. _Manhattan? What do you mean_ Manhattan?

“This means that we need the help of every single person able to, you two being at the foremost of my list since you’ve been drawing a lot of my attention lately.” She chuckled. “So I suppose I _do_ have an ulterior motive to being here: I want to recruit you to take down Bill Cipher,”

“Well, you didn’t need to come here in person for that,” said Stan.

“I’m glad you’re on board.” Jheselbraum peered searchingly at Ford, who was remaining silent.

“How do you know what he’s done to us?” He asked suddenly. “You said you know what he did to me and Stan. How?”

Jheselbraum raised an eyebrow. “I _am_ the director of a spy agency. I have many eyes, Stanford. At least seven,”

Again with the jokes. Against his better judgement, Stan was starting to like this lady. Ford however, was still looking at her stonily.

She nodded, and stated, “You’re wondering whether I have interrogated and manipulated Adeline and Fiddleford, used them like Cipher has used you. I can assure you, I have not, although I doubt that means much coming from me. However, I believe you, Stan, can testify to the fact that I have not had a chance to brief Agent McGucket on your international assignment, and that while Agent Marks was briefed, she, as usual, was free to omit the more personal aspects,”

Stan was willing to bet that that was because Jheselbraum had other sources of information than just the agents on the mission. When Ford looked at him, though, he backed her up.

“We all had a catch-up session back in Sacramento. Fiddleford came straight to California to talk to Carla about investigating the Cipher Wheel and Addi went back to Manhattan for her briefing. And, er, apart from exploding at us about you, she didn’t really talk about the personal stuff then, either. It didn’t seem like she – or Fidds – were ever forced into anything.” Ford was relaxing slightly, so Stan added, “For what it’s worth, they really seem to trust Jheselbraum, and not in that weird way you did with Cipher, where he was checking up on you all the time. Actual trust, not . . . _that,_ ”

Ford exhaled through his nose. “Alright.” He turned to Jheselbraum, focused once more. “What did you have in mind?”

“I still have the resources to scramble at least a working force of agents who can help us locate and track down each Cipher Wheel agent. I know you were kept in the dark, Stanford, but I am hoping that you were the only one who was. One agent will lead us to another, and on and on, until we have collapsed the entire network,”

“This is assuming that you can even find one agent,” frowned Stan.

“And that they’ll betray each other,” agreed Ford.

“Correct. But, Stan, don’t you remember? We have found one agent,”

Like a thunderclap, it hit him. “Carla’s partner!”

“Who?” said Ford, confused.

“The spy in the FBI! Right before I left, we found him – I think Addi and Ford called him Blind Eye?”

Eyes widening, Ford exclaimed, “Him? Good! He tried to kill me yesterday!”

“So . . . we actually have a plan? For taking Cipher down?” 

“Oh, yes.” Grinned Jheselbraum. “As for the other problem,” she addressed Ford, “you’re right. There’s only one circumstance under which _all_ the Cipher Wheel agents would be guaranteed to betray each other,”

“If Bill Cipher’s dead,” Ford put together.

“Exactly. I assume you’re up for the job?”

Simultaneously, Stan and Ford gave her identical nods of grim determination.

“That’s good news. Considering he’s hell-bent on finding you, you don’t really have any other options,” mused Jheselbraum. “The upside to that is, it shouldn’t be too hard to get to him. I expect you’ll also need help. I’ll let Agent Marks and Agent McGucket know their new assignment. They’ll be glad to see you safe, Stanford,”

 

 **Sacramento, California (USA)** ∆

“Alright Ivan, I’m sure I could get you to talk, given enough time, but that’s in short supply right now,”

“I won’t tell you anything, McCorkle,” said Wexler snidely. Beside Carla, Fiddleford rolled his eyes.

Steamrolling on as though there had been no interruption, Carla continued, “So here’s the deal. We’re going to take down Cipher, and afterwards, you’ll be free to tell us the names of every Cipher Wheel operative you know. In the meantime, we’ll keep you safe from him,”

“And this will work based on what?”

“Based on the fact that everyone’s afraid of him,”

Wexler opened and shut his mouth silently, unable to fault that logic.

“I’ll put you in the Witness Protection Program, give you a new identity, and hide you from him,”

The spy thought for close to a minute, before gritting his teeth and nodding. “Fine. I’ll go along with this, at least until you realise how hopeless your plan is and give up,”

“Cipher’s been stopped before. He can be again,” dismissed Carla.

“Stopped before? I don’t think so,”

Triumphantly, Carla jerked her head to Addi, on her other side. “This is Agent Marks of Oracle Division. You’ll find that she wasn’t taken in by his manipulations, and expressly went against his plans. The Special Agent-in-Charge of this field office is alive now, because of her. No doubt _that_ threw a wrench in the works for your boss,”

Ivan looked taken aback, then started, slowly, to grin. “No. No, _I_ doubt _that._ ” He shook his head gleefully. “You don’t think Agent Marks was the _only_ option to undertake that assassination, do you?”

A hush fell over the room. Wexler’s smile grew wider. Carla’s started to drain away.

Then she took off running, bursting out of the interrogation room.

 

∆

“That assassination wasn’t just meant to frame Oracle Division,” Blind Eye continued, as Addi’s horror mounted.

 

∆

“I need to speak to the Special Agent-in-Charge, now!” Carla demanded, bursting into her boss’s private reception room and badly scaring the secretary. There was no time to wait for an answer. She ripped open the door to his office, saw him look up from his computer with a frown, mouth open ready to demand an answer to the interruption but Carla was already speaking.

“Sir, I think you’re in dang-”

He jerked, blood seeping from a hole through his forehead, the window behind him sporting a matching circle, falling face-first onto his desk.

 

∆

“It was also meant to disrupt things enough so that the investigation into the Cipher Wheel could be brought to an end. Which, funnily enough, is still something that needs to be taken care of,”

 

∆

It took another bullet shooting into the wall next to Carla’s head to convince her to move. She hit the floor hard. Another passed a hair’s breadth over her shoulder.

_Cover, cover now!_

The desk was in front of her, so she rolled over to it, covering her head. Someone started shouting in the hallway. Another shot pierced the wood to her right, splinters flying through the air.  

 

∆

“You remember yours, don’t you, Agent Marks? How the leader of the Cipher Wheel investigation was a back-up target? But Bill doesn’t want any loose ends this time, so unfortunately, I don't think McCorkle will be returning from that rather dramatic exit,"

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been wanting to write the joke about Jheselbraum saying she has many eyes for SO LONG. On the other hand, the Carla "Hotseat" McCorkle one was entirely spur-of-the-moment.
> 
> Featuring: the return of Jheselbraum the spy mum
> 
> Spy trope no. 64: hiding out in a safe house  
> Spy trope no. 65: INJURIES  
> Spy trope no. 66: INJURIES BUT NO HOSPITALS  
> Spy trope no. 67: failure to stop an assassination


	13. The Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S FINALLY HERE  
> I'M SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG  
> GO READ NOW U DESERVE IT

**Sacramento, California (USA)** ∆

The gunshots were so loud Addi and Fiddleford heard them through two floors. Without another word, Addi sprinted for the door, drawing her weapon. With a brief gesture she signalled to Fiddleford to remain where he was. Anyone trying to get to Ivan would meet a drawn-taut Southerner who was grimly determined to survive whatever the world threw at him for the next three months he was still employed as a spy.

She took the stairs.

The corridor to the SAIC’s office was jam-packed with FBI agents. Addi barged through, the fact that the shots had stopped doing nothing but increasing the number of worst-case scenarios parading through her head. There was no silence. People were on the phone, people were demanding answers as to what the hell was going on, and no one was stupid enough to go near the danger zone.

 _Except me of course,_ Addi reflected.

“Wait, you can’t go in there-!”

She shoved the last person out of her way, her speed not slowing in the slightest, slid around the tiled floor of the corner on her knees, head ducked, gun up, shoulders and body crouched small to minimise the target she was presenting herself as. Her eyes flicked from point to point, analysing the windowless scene, well-lit, receptionist’s door open, room clear, office beyond, closed door, _bullet-holes, no Carla-_

_BANG._

Another – solitary - gunshot burst the lock, making a brief spark against the metal, propelling the door open and Carla dived out of the dust-filled, shadowy room beyond. She rolled when she hit the floor, sprang up, and shoved the door closed again, coughing, and moved out of the reception so fast she blurred-

“Oof!”

\- and suddenly Addi was flat on her back, ribs and chest aching, staring at the ceiling while Carla groaned from wherever she was sprawled.

“Ouch,” said Addi. Then-

“You’re alive!” She burst out, scrambling up. Carla hacked out a dusty cough.

“What happened? Those were gunshots!”

“Rea- eally? I didn’t notice,” wheezed Carla, rolling onto her side and pushing herself up. Addi allowed her a second to breathe – she wasn’t unreasonable – and _then_ got all up in her business.

“Were you hit? Where does it hurt? Did you see who was shooting? Are they still in there? Did you get them? What-”

“Can you – wait – a – second-” Managing to fend off Addi’s frantic check that she still had all her major body parts, Carla straightened up, inhaled steadily, and answered briskly, “I sustained a gunshot wound to the nowhere, I hurt everywhere you crashed into me, whoever it was was in the building opposite – I couldn’t see them, and-” an expression of distaste – “no, I didn’t get them. Okay?” She looked back at the office she’d just burst out of. “Looks like the secretary took off as soon as he heard me laying down cover fire, so he shouldn’t be hurt. The assassination was like your assignment, right? So the Special Agent-in-Charge was the only target and now that he’s been seen to no one else should be in danger-”

“He’s _dead?_ ”

“As a doornail.” Carla answered shortly and then steamrolled on as if there had been no interruption. “Whoever it was is probably long gone by now, if they’re smart.”

“Actually-”

“The secretary must have alerted the building to what was happening, so we should expect an influx of agents soon, which on the upside means that people are _finally_ going to start listening to me about the Cipher Conspiracy and we can get all that – that – _stuff_ sorted out – by the way, what did Wexler say after I left? Addi? Addi, hellooo, are you okay?”

Addi surveyed her. Carla raised her eyebrows defiantly back, looking for all the world like she was utterly unmoved by someone being killed right in front of her. That is, if the shaking hands, or the pupils blown a little to wide to be normal, or the way her mouth was motoring away but her voice was monotonous like she wasn’t really paying attention to what she was saying all weren’t taken into account.

Addi’s silence propagated.

Carla slowly closed her mouth, but almost immediately began tapping her foot, clearly still needing an outlet to burn off adrenaline. She broke the locked gaze she’d been holding with Addi.

“Carla, if you need to take a moment-” she began gently.

“No.” Carla shook her head immediately. “What I need is to stop the Cipher Wheel. Now. Before any more people . . . or Stan, or Ford . . .”

“Or you,”

“What?”

Addi took a breath. She would love to allow Carla a moment to process, to calm down, but at the moment that wasn’t possible. Carla was right. Their first concern was to stop the Cipher Wheel.  

“That assassin hasn’t gone anywhere. Wexler said that Cipher’s still trying to stop your Cipher Wheel investigation, which means he takes out the SAIC to frame Oracle Division . . . _and_ you, to stop the investigation. You’re being targeted.”

Carla was frozen to the spot. Addi started forward to reassure her that there was no way she was going to allow anything to happen, when instead Carla’s dark eyes narrowed and she started pacing.

“That’s a stupid plan.” She degraded. “Assassinating me when I’ve been claiming for so long that there’s a conspiracy out to get us all? That’s the perfect way to convince everyone I’m _right!_ At least _try_ to make it look like an accident. Come on, Cipher, you can do better than that!” She said in vicious triumph.

“Uh . . . well, I don’t think you should be so happy about this, but alright. Whatever gets this guy caught. But actually . . .” Something clicked in Addi’s head. “But I don’t think it matters at this point whether people _know_ about the Cipher Conspiracy – he has the memory gun, he can do what he likes.”

“Which means he wants me dead because I’ve been a pain in the ass,”

“Basically,” agreed Addi.

Carla laughed victoriously. “He’s getting cocky. He thinks he can’t be touched now – which means he’s coming after all of us now, not just me.” She looked at Addi, a spark of a plan in her eyes. “Those agents who attacked you – and Stan!”

“And Ford!” Addi realised suddenly. “Cipher wanted to take out Ford himself – and Oracle Division’s been after Cipher so long that I bet that’s the case for Fiddleford and me as well.”

Carla was nodding, and Addi felt a grin grow on her face to match hers.

“We can set a trap,” They said together.

And that’s when the crowd of FBI agents around the corner managed to gather their courage and flood the corridor with chaos.

“FREEZE!” Yelled approximately fifty people, weapons drawn (which would make for an interesting firefight, given that half of them were pointing guns at the backs of the other half, Addi noted).

She faced them with a disapproving expression, feeling Carla step up authoritatively beside her.

A whistle so piercing it could have cleaned glass sliced through the noise. Carla held up her badge and spoke rapidly.

“Senior Special Agent Carla McCorkle. I just witnessed the successful assassination of the SAIC, which was brought on by events connected to my current major investigation into the Cipher Wheel. The gunshots you heard were mine, fired from my Bureau-issued regulation weapon to cover my own escape from the assassin, and you can be assured the assassin _was not_ me – inspection of the body will show the murder weapon as a high-calibre sniper-rifle, of which my associate here will be able to give a far more detailed account of.”

The agents stood silently, open-mouthed and staring as a good percentage of their questions were systematically answered.

 _She must have some kind of super-hearing, to decipher all that yelling,_ Addi decided.

Carla waited expectantly. When no one moved, she said pointedly, “Maybe you’d like to _inspect_ the body to make sure I’m not _lying_?”

Five agents hurriedly peeled off to do their jobs, then stopped outside the door to the office, one opening his mouth.

“Yes, it’s safe. The assassin will have relocated to another vantage point to wait for me, their next target, and NO, I did not see what they looked like!” Carla raised her voice to drown out the rising hubbub that greeted that statement. “Questions _one_ at a time, _please!_ ”

One person actually raised a hand in response to that school-teacherly statement.

“The- the Cipher Wheel investigation? But that’s not a real-”

“At this point I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer. Next!”

“Who the heck is she?” A man pointed at Addi.

“Adeline Marks, Oracle Division,” Addi answered, the sheer Federal-ness of the situation having her halfway through reaching for a badge that wasn’t there before she stopped herself.

“What the heck is Oracle Division?”

“All you need to know is that we didn’t black out Manhattan, which we may or may not be in the midst of being framed for - it's a little unclear,” Adeline told him.

“So who the heck blacked out Manhattan?!”

“The Cipher Wheel! Haven’t you been listening?” said Carla impatiently. “Now, I have a lot of things on my to-do list today, including but not limited to: an agent of the Bill Cipher himself in a holding cell who I need to finish interrogating; an assassin after me who I need to stop from killing me; a fiancé I need to find; and an anarchist organisation of spies to take down. So, now that the man in charge of this field office is dead: who’s in command?”

Everyone went back to staring at Carla open-mouthed.

She clapped her hands sharply, the sound cracking in everyone’s ears.

“Come on, come on, we’ve got to get a move on! Who’s in charge?”

The agents looked at the dust-covered, blood-speckled, tense and fiery-eyed apparition of a woman in front of them, of whom many even outranked.

“Um . . . you?” someone ventured.

And she replied, after a moment, “That’s right,”

 

∆

“You see, no matter how hard you try, Agent McGucket, nothing you do will ever be enough to stop us,”

Fiddleford stared absently into the distance, ruminating.

 _Jheselbraum’s been outta contact for over twenty-four hours now. Granted, the whole a’ Manhattan bein’ pretty effectively taken to ground was_ not _something we ever counted on happening, but even still . . ._

“-the Cipher Wheel will not be stopped. We will tear down your-”

_She’s the head of one a’ the most secret organisations in the world. She wouldn’t let a little th- a thing like an island bein’ blacked out stop her from doin’ her job._

“-about it. Even if you multiply every iota of your power exponentially, it would not come close-”

_If she’s out of contact, it’s because she wants to be. She’s setting something up. And with any luck, her absence is foolin’ Cipher into disregarding the threat of Oracle Division. So all we need to do is be prepared for when she surfaces. What do I need? Phone on, obviously, ready to leave at any moment . . ._

He frowned. For some reason, he was finding it hard to think. 

“-burn to the gr-"

“Would ya shut up?” He snapped at Wexler. “ _Some_ of us are still workin’!”

The enemy agent, still cuffed to the interrogation room’s table, looked startled.

“But . . . this field office is in ruins! Multiple assassinations have been carried out, your agency is in shambles, McCorkle is dea-”

“Negative on all o’ that. It’s been done and sorted for twenty minutes now,” Fiddleford said impatiently.

“Wha- but no one’s come in to tell you that!”

Fiddleford huffed out a sigh, pushed himself off the wall he was leaning on, and dug his phone out of his pocket, waggling it at Wexler. “The text function is mighty useful,” he said dryly.

Before Wexler could respond, his triumphant monologue having been severely derailed, Fiddleford rapped his knuckles sharply on the two-way mirror.

“Done in there yet?”

A muffled “Yes!” answered.

Nodding to Wexler, Fiddleford finally left the room, turned right, waited for the stream of slightly baffled-looking senior federal agents to exit the monitoring station next door, and rejoined Addi and Carla inside. A junior agent replaced him in the duty of standing guard over Wexler.

“All sorted?” asked Fiddleford.

Carla nodded, stretching out some of the tension in her arms. “Everyone’s up to date on the situation and, for now at least, listening to me. Is it bad that I want them to stay unbalanced so I can stay in charge?” she added with a reckless grin.

“Eh. I think you’re doing good,” shrugged Addi. At some point she’d seated herself cross-legged on top of a table. In the interrogation room, apparently not wanting to waste a perfectly good evil monologue and keen to take advantage of a new listener, Wexler was continuing with his misplaced dramatic gloating to the junior agent: a listener who did not appear to be as inconsiderately inattentive as Fiddleford.

“What about the assassin?” he said.

“At the moment the general consensus is that I should stay away from windows. Anyway! Let’s figure out our next move,”

Not missing the sudden subject-change, Fiddleford didn’t press it. There _were_ more urgent things at hand, after all, and if his friend thought she was fine for now, he was going to trust her.

“We’ve thought of something,” said Addi, glancing at Carla.

“Yeah?” he said.

“Yep. We think Cipher might be after us _personally_ ,” she gestured between him and herself. “Although not Carla, evidently. Ford, however, got his own special visit from the guy, and after the way Stan interrupted it, I’ll bet it’s the same case for him. When I think back to the way those agents cornered me in the elevator, their tactics weren’t lethal, and since you’re Oracle Division as well . . .”

Fiddleford nodded his understanding, feeling more upbeat with every word. “So we’ve got a line-a’-sight right to Cipher. We can get close to him-”

“-somehow-”

“-and we can be sure he’s not goin’ ta off us immediately,”

“The bad news is that Stan and Ford are still out of contact,” Carla said soberly, tapping her fingers on her folded arms. “That’s three hours and thirty-eight minutes since Stan left for the forest, and he _still_ hasn’t come back with Ford. And it’s not like we can just send out a search party; that area is huge, and just about the whole field office is busy notifying every branch and division that will listen about the Cipher Conspiracy,” she seemed to cut herself off, but she didn’t need to say anything more anyway.

_Cipher couldn’t have gotten to them already, could he?_

No one wanted to say it. 

“Fer now let’s just focus on Wexler,” Fiddleford said eventually. “When he cracks, he should get us some more Cipher Wheel operatives, and we can start pushing back for real,”

“Right,” Addi said quietly. Carla nodded shortly, twisting her shirt sleeves.

_If Cipher does have them . . . what must they be goin’ through?_

The manically cheerful and heady jangle of a banjo cut through the sombre silence. 

“Sorry, tha’s me,” muttered Fiddleford, pulling his phone out of his pocket again. And stared in disbelief at the screen.

“What is it?” asked Addi.

“Well . . . Jheselbraum’s back.” He grinned. “And she’s got a new mission for us,”

A string of coordinates from an unidentified number graced the screen. Below it was a photo, showing a very startled looking Stanford Pines, eyes wide open and pupils contracted to the size of pinheads, and an equally surprised Stanley Pines, who, in contrast, had his hands half raised to shield himself from something, his eyes shut tight, and his mouth open in a silent yell. An accompanying text said:

_(I forgot the flash was on)_

 

 **El Dorado National Forest, California (USA)** ∆

“You don’t trust her, do you?”

Ford jumped a little as Stan came up to stand next to him. He glanced at the view Ford had been surveying, apparently deep enough in thought that he hadn’t noticed Stan crunching over all the leaves and twigs between the house and Ford’s position in his approach. There was nothing to see really. Just trees.

_Staring at his thoughts then._

Ford frowned. “Of course I do. We went over it, didn’t we? Addi and Fiddleford work for her, they trust her, they’re well-treated, they’re happy, and you gave your personal vote of confidence. See? No reason not to trust her.” He turned back to the forest as though the matter was settled. 

Yeah, not in Stan’s book.

“For a lot of people it would be,” agreed Stan with _just_ enough emphasis on “a lot of people” to make Ford frown at him again.

“You’re insinuating that I’m not a lot of people,”

_Perfect!_

“Well yeah, you’re just _one_ person. Haha!” Stan beamed broadly, hands spread apart to invite the whole forest to applaud his conversational and comedic mastery. 

Ford crossed his arms. “You’re insinuating that I’m a paranoid mess who’s suspicious of anyone and everyone and who refuses to place the slightest reliance on another person in defence of the moment they don’t, won’t, or can’t, do what needs to be done, invariably bringing chaos and ruin down on whatever we _had_ achieved, and hurting me again in the process,” he rephrased.

Stan dropped his arms and put his hands in his jacket pockets.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “That’s pretty . . . well . . . spot on.” Ford nodded shortly and turned back to the forest.

“Except for the part that you’re only doing that ‘cause you’ve been lied to and psychologically scarred for the better part of five years and you’re only now just realising it and you’ve got no way of dealing with it. Which means all this is pretty reasonable,”

When Ford remained motionless, he nudged him and said quietly, “Just so you know, I’ve been in similar places. Not exactly the same, because, I mean, what are the chances of _that?_ . . . But, yeah, similar. Which means I know how to help you outta them, too,”

Ford didn’t do anything much at that either, but he did uncross his arms. And Stan wasn’t sure if he imagined it or not, it was so slight, but he might have nodded as well.

“So, y’know, I’m not _blaming_ you for not trusting her.” He waited to see if Ford would respond.

“I _do_ trust her,” his brother muttered, a little petulantly.

After some consideration, Stan said, “No you don’t,”

“Everyone I trust trusts her. Ergo, I trust her,”

“Not really,”

“Stan, she has a plan for taking down Cipher. I’ll trust anyone who says they can do that,”

“Doubt it,”

“I trust her!”

“Ehh,”

“I do.” A pause. “But . . . alright, I _may_ have some . . . _small_ . . . reservations. Although they are quite persistent,”

Stan nudged him encouragingly again. “I’d be worried if you didn’t, Ford. I mean, I’m worried anyway, but I’d be checking to see if you ran on batteries and had circuitry under your skin by now if you _were_ fine,”

Ford huffed out what may have been a weak laugh, meeting Stan’s eyes for a brief moment before looking away again.

They looked at the trees suffusing the space around them.

“Do you trust me?” Stan asked suddenly, figuring it was best just to get it over with quickly.

Ford stared at him in surprise. “Why do you ask that?”

“Well, what with the whole dragging-me-around-the-world-without-telling-me-why-and-not-knowing-when-or-if-I’ll-ever-see-you-again thing. And you also drugged me rather than let me come with you out here. And I’m not blaming you if you don’t!” Stan amended quickly. “I just – I dunno, I wanted to know,”

A quizzical expression came over Ford’s face.

“Forget it,” Stan said hurriedly, backtracking as fast as he could. “Stupid question. You don’t need to say it. And don’t worry about it, either. I mean, it’s not like I’ve done anything to-”

“Of _course_ I do, Stan,” Ford said loudly over him. “Out of everyone, you are the person who should have the least doubt about that,”

There was something really warm and buoyant in Stan’s chest, like his own personal hot air balloon, complete with cheering passengers and a bright, primary-coloured theme.

“Really?” He asked.

“Really,” And Ford actually _laughed._ “I trust you, Stan. No reservations.” He slung his arm around Stan’s shoulders as easy as anything. “Knucklehead,” he added.

“You’re the knucklehead,” Stan muttered. He put his own arm around Ford’s shoulders all the same, and they went back to watching the trees.

That is, until Stan noticed that he’d put his arm right across the partially-wet blood stains down Ford’s back, which was sufficient enough to ruin the warm moment.

“You need new clothes,” he said, wiping his hand on his pants.

“Well, the only ones around are yours, so unless you want to swa-”

“See anything interesting?” asked Jheselbraum, approximately two inches behind them.

“AHH!”

Stan was pretty sure every critter in a hundred metre radius must have been frightened off by his and Ford’s combined yell, but on the upside, he took the agility of Ford’s reflexive response to mean that he was recovering well.

“I’m off back to the city,” Jheselbraum continued pleasantly, as if the two of them hadn’t just made a standing leap to about six feet away from her. “Agent McGucket and Agent Marks should arrive soon, however there’s apparently a situation back in Sacramento that I should be able to provide some order to.” She rolled her eyes. “The FBI is not handling the revelation about the Cipher Conspiracy well. Good luck, Stanford, Stanley.” She shook both their hands and strode confidently off through the undergrowth towards where her car was concealed. Stan felt a brief pang that it didn’t look like he was going to get to see Carla as soon as he would’ve liked. But it wouldn’t be too much longer, he hoped – steadfastly ignoring the fact that the last time he’d thought that he’d embarked on a covert spy operation around the world for two straight weeks. He’d see her soon enough, and they had a plan to take down Cipher, and he’d make sure it _hurt_ the guy, and all this craziness would be over, and he could go back to cooking dinner for his girlfri- _fiancée_ (fiancée!) on weeknights _._ She’d be fine in the meantime. It wasn’t like an assassin was after her.

“Well. I guess we just have to wait now,” said Ford, heading back towards the safe-house.

“What’s new?” Stan shrugged, following. “Don’t know why she stuck around this long, to be honest. It’s not like we’re going to get into trouble the second we’re alone,”

He ducked down to scratch his knee, which probably saved his life.

A brief whistle heralded the passage of a dart as it flew over his head. It struck the door right beside Ford’s hand, and vibrated.

Stan stared at it.

Ford stared at it.

They looked at each other.

And then they threw themselves behind whatever could even vaguely serve as cover, just in time for the hail of darts.

“Should I just-” Stan ducked back as another passed through the leaves of the shrub he was shielding himself with – “not say anything?! Ever?!”

“Maybe! Yes!” came Ford’s muffled shout from where he was tightly sandwiched between the wall of the hut and the door.

 

∆

Addi wasn’t able to stop smiling, she found.

The reasons, as she listed to keep herself occupied on the drive, were thus:

1.       They had a vague idea – no, a _plan,_ definitely a plan – for how to maybe get an opportunity where they could possibly take out Cipher. Perhaps.

2.       Stan had found Ford.

3.       Jheselbraum had found Stan and Ford.

4.       Ford was safe.

5.       Didn’t the director say somethin’ about stitches? And mind-control? And trauma?

6.       . . . Ford was mostly safe.

7.       Jheselbraum was back in contact, and according to her, Oracle Division was still very much operational, despite Cipher’s attempt to knock them out of the game with the Manhattan blackout.

8.       The FBI had been calming down by the time they had left.

9.       Ah’d say they were still a little strung out, Addi.

10.      Yes, well . . .

11.      Carla had had a wicked grin on her face which probably meant Wexler wasn’t going to stand a chance. Agreed?

12.      Agreed. Despite still havin’ an assassin after her.

13.      Meh, she can take him.

14.      And once Wexler’s cracked, then the rest a’ the Cipher Wheel’ll be toast too.

15.       _Yes._

16.      And finally, they were going to meet Ford right now! And Stan as well. What? What is it? Why are you grinning at me?

17.      Oh, shut up.

18.      She had a good feeling about this.

Fiddleford’s car ran over a tree root, causing the whole vehicle to jolt.

“How close are we to the coordinates, anyway?” Fiddleford asked, wrestling with the steering.

Addi checked her phone, the FINDURLOSTAGENT app struggling with the weak signal in the middle of the forest, but coping.

“We should be right on top o-”

Fiddleford hit a man.

The seatbelt across her chest yanked her back into the seat and the whole world seemed to jolt as Fiddleford slammed on the brakes. She was staring at her knees and the belt was cutting into her neck, and her heart was pounding. The next course of action was obvious.

“You _hit_ someone?!” She yelled at her partner.

“No!” He said indignantly. “He ran out in front’a me!”

“I can’t _believe_ you hit someone!”

“Neither can I! This entire sector’s s’posed ta be closed off!”

Addi fumbled with her seatbelt and lurched out, wincing at the dent in the bonnet.

“Oh my gosh, are you oka-” She froze at the sight of the prone, groaning man on the ground.

“What’s wrong?” Fiddleford had followed her out. His face went slack. “Is he dead?”

There was another pained groan.

“Oh thank God,” Fiddleford sighed.

“He’s . . . got a tranq gun,” Addi said in puzzlement. She looked closely at the clothes he was wearing. Black was a theme. So was Kevlar.

A fourth person came onto the scene, dressed in the same tactical gear, and observed the situation. His buddy, on the ground, with two people standing over him, in front of a scraped-up car that had clearly been forcing its way through the denseness of the surrounding no-access-allowed foliage and which also had a large, person-shaped fold in the hood.

“You okay, Rob?” He asked cautiously.

“They hit me with their _car,_ man . . .” Rob moaned.

“But he’s not dead, and that’s what counts!” Fiddleford interrupted quickly.

The newcomer didn’t seem too bothered one way or the other, which was the next red flag in Addi’s head.

“Possible hostiles have entered the area,” he said into his mike. “Two of them,”

Fiddleford tensed. Addi surreptitiously reached for the gun in her jacket.

“. . . who even drives out here . . .”

“Shut up, Rob.” The man levelled his tranquiliser at them.

“Uhhh . . . we’re with the FBI?” Fiddleford tried vainly.

Addi tackled him, rolled, came up on one knee, and heard a _plink_ as the dart collided with the car, closely followed by the much louder explosion of her gun as she sighted at Rob's friend. He grunted and stumbled backwards.

_Kevlar vest._

She re-aimed, fired, and he dropped. She whipped around for Fiddleford. 

“You okay?”

He ignored her, already up and pulling back one of the unconscious Rob's sleeves, under which the edge of a tattoo was visible. It seemed that the dart had ricocheted off the metal of the car and hit Rob instead, tying things up rather nicely in Addi’s opinion.

Fiddleford looked up at her.

“Cipher Wheel.” He held up Rob's arm. A heart with an arrow through it was inked there, an exact match to one of the symbols in Oracle Division’s database. “They’re here for Stan and Ford,”

The dead agent’s mike crackled.

_“. . . sending reinforcements . . .”_

 

∆

“Two new targets incoming, sir. First strike team down,”

 _"Huh. Looks like Jezzy’s up and about then, and she’s sent in her mutts. Well, what are you waiting for? Send in the rest, same orders for those pesky agents from that stupidly named division (whichhasn’tevenbeenabletopredictanythingsince1981justasidenoteforya). Ha! What am I_ saying? _You know how to do your job!_ DON’T YOU?”

 

∆

Addi rounded a thicket and found a small clearing with a decrepit old hut in the centre. There was no one in sight, but signs of conflict covered the area: tranquiliser darts were present on just about every surface.

She and Fiddleford looked at each other.

“Think they’re still here, or . . .” He muttered lowly to her.

Before she could respond, a bush groaned.

“Is it over?” It said.

“Well, they’re not firing anymore. I don’t know about _over,_ ” replied the swung-wide door of the hut. It sounded a lot like-

“ _Ford?_ ”

There was silence. Then Stan’s head peeked over the top of a shrub and the door/shield swung closed as Ford released his grip on it.

“You made it!” Stan exclaimed pushing himself to his feet with obvious relief on his face. “I thought we were toast. _Please_ tell me you parked close by,”

“Just a few minutes away,” Fiddleford reassured him. “We should hurry, though. Ah’m pretty sure we met your strike team just as they were circlin’ around to another vantage point, since this one was clearly doing nothin’. They have back-up on the way,”

“So we should get away from here as fast as possible,” nodded Stan. “Alright, let’s go. Addi?”

She registered that he’d tapped her shoulder, but she didn’t look away from Ford and he hadn’t looked away from her either. She took him in. He looked tired, and far gaunter than he should, and there was bl- there was an uncomfortable amount of blood on his shirt. She couldn’t believe it hadn’t even been a full day since she’d last seen him. She didn’t know if it was possible to feel homesickness for a time, but there wasn’t a lot she wouldn’t have given to go back to that morning and redo everything, make sure that whatever had happened to him was null and void and ensure that he was _safe._

“Oh boy. Guys?”

There was a sigh and Fiddleford pushed her in the back in a manner that suggested she should hurry up. She didn’t care.

Ford seemed to find his voice.

“Adeline, I am so s-” was as far as he got before she cannoned into him and hugged him as tightly as she could.

“Don’t be,” she told him, shaking her head firmly and trying to let go of a sudden, slightly irrational surge of anxiety that was rearing its head now that she finally had him back. _He’s not going to disappear again, he’s not going to disappear again._

“Ford, you’ve got _nothing_ to be sorry for, it’s not your fault, _none_ of this is your fault. I’m just glad you’re safe,”

She felt his fingers dig into her back a little. “I’m- I’m glad you’re safe too,” he said into her shoulder, and she _definitely_ noticed his silence on the other things she’d said and she _really_ wanted to hurt Bill Cipher.

Ford lost his struggle to keep quiet.

“I’ve made _huge_ mistakes-”

“So?” She pulled back slightly from the embrace to glare fiercely at him. “Fiddleford just hit someone with a car and I killed his friend in front of him. Do I look like I care?”

His mouth dropped open a little. “Wh- you- Uh, no, but-”

“No. I am so far from bothered by the things you’ve been _manipulated_ into, Stanford.” She took his hands, made sure she had his full attention, and said firmly and with as much determination as she’d ever possessed, “I don’t care what you’ve done. It doesn’t matter to me. What matters is that you want to fix it now.”

“I don’t care either Stanford, just so’s yer know,” came Fiddleford’s voice from behind them.

Ford blinked, looking between her and Fiddleford for a moment. And then he smiled with only a hint of hesitancy and kissed her cheek, hugging her again which she was all too willing to return.

“We really should leave before we’re assassinated, though,” he said seriously.

 

∆

 _In fairness,_ Stan thought, _we_ did _make it._

Reunite with Addi and Fiddleford, cue sappy stuff from the lovebirds (and more reinforcement that Ford’s not to blame). Check.

Creep through the forest on high alert so we aren’t surprised by the incoming Cipher Wheel back-up (which was just great, by the way). Check.

Get to Fiddleford’s car because it’s closer than the Stanleymobile, still on the look-out for bad guys. Check.

Get shot at anyway. Check.

But as far as Stan was concerned, they _did_ get within spitting distance of the car, so, even if it wasn’t _really_ a win, they hadn’t lost yet, and therefore they tied. And considering that Carla had captured one of the Cipher Wheel agents, but the Cipher Wheel agents hadn’t captured any of them, his side was still winning overall.

The positives just stacked up, and yet for some reason Stan wasn’t feeling that lucky as he dove behind a shrub and ate dirt for the second time in twenty minutes.

He _really_ didn’t feel the love of the universe as it turned out an enemy agent was already behind it, taking potshots at the others. He punched Stan in the face.

The world rocked forwards overhead ninety degrees and suddenly the ground was flat against Stan’s back while he stared at the sky.

He wasn’t so stunned that he didn’t realise what the consequences would be if he let the guy stab him with the tranquiliser in his hand that he _had_ been in the middle of loading into the gun.

Stan caught his wrist in both hands and shoved him back, pushing himself up to his elbows, into a sitting position, onto his knees, then flung himself forwards and brought the guy to the ground. The gun went spinning away. They landed awkwardly, Stan in a far less secure position than was good for his health and future liveliness – with his shoulder below him and one arm trapped under the guy, who immediately took the advantage and twisted, forcing Stan onto his back again, catching Stan’s suddenly free and punching arm in a tight hold, but he overbalanced, and now they were turning again, and Stan pressed as much of his weight downwards as possible, trying to get his opponent in a choke hold and then something under them shifted-

“WHOA!"

\- and in Stan’s defence he was a bit busy to have realised that the tree roots they were grappling on top of had made a precipice of soil and rock, over which he was now tumbling –

The other guy was underneath Stan when they landed and with a pained choking noise all the breath went out of him and his torso seized in response. Stan took a second orient himself, sighted, and dealt a blow that knocked the man out cold. He scrambled up, breathing hard, and a dart whispered past his elbow away to his two o’clock so he turned into the trajectory and luckily the sniper wasn’t too far away, in fact, they were almost unreasonably close to be using the ranged weapon they were.

He ducked, rolled, saw the barrel training his movements, dodged the other way as it fired, leapt forwards into their agent’s space where the gun would be next to useless except as a club and _shoved_ the shooter back into a tree. Their head cracked against it and they dropped at his feet, and a sharp knee put them out of action completely. He stayed in place for a count of two, listening for anything and everything around him, heard a distant gun go off, a proper firearm, not a tranquiliser, then turned in that direction and sped off, keeping his path as close to the trees as possible until he ran into a doubled-over Fiddleford-

They bounced off each other like billiard balls, but managed to stay on their feet.

“Stan! Y’alright?” Fiddleford said, fighting for breath. Stan nodded but made frantic shushing noises and dragged him down behind a suitably dense thicket. They had no idea where the Cipher Wheel agents were, or how many of them were in the forest with them. No need to give them a sound to pinpoint their position – like that gunshot had done.

On one hand Fiddleford had a bloody nose and looked a little out of it, but on the other there were two motionless agents on the ground from the direction he’d come running from. On the . . . third mutant hand that had probably sprung out of the metaphorical guy’s chest, Fiddleford, based on his lonesomeness, didn’t know where Addi or Ford were either.

“Please tell me you have a gun,” Stan said.

Fiddleford held one up.

“Oh thank- aaand it’s empty. _Why do you have an empty gun?_ ”

“Well it’s not like I knew it wasn’t stocked when Ah picked it up!” Fiddleford said, affronted. “It’s whoever was th’last agent to use the car’s fault! Ah used the last bullet just a’fore ya got here,”

So the shot he’d heard hadn’t been Addi or Ford. Which meant they had no direction to go in to find either of them. And finding them would be hard enough anyway, in this Cipher Wheel-infested forest.

“We need to get back to the Stanleymobile. It’s a bit far but I think me and Ford did a good enough job hiding it that they won’t have found it yet. Ford’ll be heading for it if he’s got any sense-” which was another point entirely, but Stan was going to ignore it for now – “and hopefully Addi’s with him,”

“Lead the way,” Fiddleford motioned, but he must have definitely been more dazed than he was letting on because he stood up without any thought as to what his cover would be if he did.

A dart promptly sprouted from his shoulder.

“Move!”

Stan barrelled into him, taking it as a good sign that Fiddleford was at least alert enough to pull the dart out as soon as possible, and trying to ignore the pretty bad signs of him starting to stumble and drop back after a mere forty feet of sprinting through the trees and trying desperately not to trip.

An agent appeared in front of them and they swerved around her. In opposite directions.

_Doesn’t matter doesn’t matter he was still on his feet and going we’ll just regroup right after you get past this thicket –_

He got past the thicket and immediately looked to his left for Fiddleford. He wasn’t there. Stan skidded to a stop and listened to the thundering of his heart and the panting of his breath and the noises all around him. The agent wasn’t following him. No footsteps came from the direction Fiddleford should have taken. No one was to be seen at all.

There was no sound but the rustle of the forest.

 

∆

There was someone right on the other side of the tree. Ford didn’t dare breathe. Beside him, Addi’s fingers were going white as they tightened on her gun – their only weapon, since Ford’s had been kicked out of his grip six minutes ago. Addi had only just managed to keep hers, and she had a jagged tear in her jeans with a long but thankfully shallow knife cut underneath to show for it.

Slowly, he tugged on her hand, drawing her forward and away. They took care with their steps. One snapped twig, one crunched leaf, and it would be over.

Another agent came into view ahead, and only the random chance that she happened to be looking the other way at the time saved them from discovery. Addi led them urgently to the right.

Over a small stony outcrop, zig zag through more trees, and two more agents were methodically sweeping the area.

Addi bit down on a curse and they backtracked again. Ford pulled her down behind a hillock. Ears straining, he waited for the agents to pass out of range once again, but unlike all the other times they had ducked out of view, he didn’t immediately resume their motion. This wasn’t working. The forest was too densely populated with enemy agents for their strategy so far to be feasible, and he wasn’t going to risk yet another all-to-close encounter.

As if she had read his mind, Addi whispered, “This isn’t working,”

But there was a solution. He didn’t like it at all, and he knew it wasn’t going to go down well with Addi, and knew that it wouldn’t have a good ending at all. He’d do it anyway.

“I’ll distract them while you keep going,” Addi said. His head snapped around, a fierce and hopefully also forbidding expression leaping to his aid – anything to reinforce the sheer terror that had just plummeted its way into his stomach.

“ _What?!_ ” He hissed. “No. Absolutely not. That’s practically a guaranteed prelude to your capture, torture, and murder. If anyone is going out there, it’s me,”

If anything, she seemed even more motivated than before. The expression did not seem to have worked.

“Stanford, I have the only gun. I’m going,”

He snatched it swiftly out of her hand. “Not anymore,”

Her expression was outraged enough to make him regret the action. She flicked him hard on the nose and snatched it back.

“ _Yes,_ anymore. Besides, I don’t know the way back to Stan’s car. You do. Therefore,” She made a shooing motion.

“Nonsense. You’ll find it easily,” Ford said, but he was grasping at straws and she knew it.

“In this forest crawling with people who want us dead. Sure.” She stopped him before he could retaliate. “ _Ford._ ” He looked at her. She let some of her guard drop, and he was struck silent by the pleading in her eyes.

“Have you _seen_ yourself lately? There is no _way_ I am letting Cipher anywhere near you. Not again,”

She really wasn’t going to budge on this. He’d be frustrated as all hell with her if there wasn’t a warm, touched feeling curling its way around his chest and settling in below his heart.

This way was going to be so much harder.

“Adeline . . .” He shook his head, then gave in and kissed her. After a moment, he let his hand drop onto the knife-wound on her leg. She broke away with a pained gasp and a flinch and he apologised frantically and then reached into his pocket and drew out the tablets; one was already gone from when Stan had taken it.

Addi stared and slowly went still as he offered it to her.

“For the pain,”

She didn’t move.

“Addi, please,”

“Are you trying to drug me?” She said suspiciously.

_Well. Good one, Stanford._

She was glaring at him now. 

“I- well, yes, but that doesn’t mean it won’t help with the pain-” He shut up. Clearly, words weren’t going to work, so he instead he tried taking her hands - which meant she hardly had to move at all in order to sink the tranquiliser dart she’d found on the ground into his skin.

“ _That’s_ how you drug someone,” she told him and he still heard her over the roaring in his ears and the feeling of something new flowing up his arm and fear in his throat and God he loved her but he was also too panicked and angry and there were more important things at the moment so he couldn’t tell her right then-

Was the world going dark? No. Just for him.

They’d been crouched for too long for there to be any hope of adrenaline keeping him awake.

This couldn’t be happening.

He tipped over and Addi grabbed his shoulders, lowering him gently to the ground. Her voice was far away and distorted, like he was underwater, but he still heard, “You’ve been the idiot enough. Now it’s my turn. We have a plan, I hope . . .” and he was still awake enough for the note of fear in her voice to mean something. He wasn’t awake enough to do anything about it though. The next time he saw her, he would. He would see her again, and he would keep her safe. Despite her having more of a track record with that than him at the moment. He’d have to even that up. He would, when he saw her again . . .

 

 **Gravity Falls, Oregon (USA)** ∆

The man on the wall – Bill consulted the Journal – Fiddleford McGucket, his name was, previously referred to as “F” until sentimentality had gotten the better of Pines and his resolve to seem all secretive and clandestine had crumbled like a castle on the beach, the absolute clod. Anyway, the guy – Fidds – managed to raise his head despite how much he was shaking and sweating, blinked, and looked around, not that he was able to see much. No lights were on. Bill grinned in the dark.

He – the guy – Fiddlesticks – looked uncomprehendingly at his hands, one after the other. Bill looked too, still unnoticed where he was sitting with his feet up on one of the workbenches. Pretty basic. Not that interesting. Four fingers and a thumb. Manacles holding him to the wall. Guy was pretty distressed for such an obvious situation. It wasn’t like there was any misconceptions to be had, so that at least eliminated the element of the unknown from the situation, which Bill had gathered was one of the usual terrors people had. McGucket didn’t seem to care, becoming frantic as he tugged uselessly at the iron.

“Oh Fiddleford, Fiddleford, Fiddleford. What to do with you?” he drawled – Bill, not Fiddy McGiddy, who had frozen and finally realised he wasn’t alone. Pretty rude, since Bill’d been there for about an hour already.

“I’ve been having fun, I have to say. An actual Oracle Division agent right here in front of me! How often does that happen? A criminally low amount, Fiddleford. Criminally. And it’s _especially_ nice this time, because _you_ -” he gestured at him with the memory gun, grinning all the wider when McGucket’s eyes widened and he (somewhat inconceivably) stiffened _even more_ – “Farm Boy, are a friend to one Stanf-”

“Whatever yer goin’ to do ta me, just do it,” snapped McGucket, attempting to bore holes into Bill with his suddenly rock-steady gaze. “I don’t care in the slightest what you’ve got ta say, Cipher,”

“Likewise, Widdleford. Props for the ‘brave show of defiance’,” Here Bill rolled his eyes and added air quotes with his fingers to match the hot air that that phrase was. “But I’ve seen it before, and I’m getting bored of it. Which is _not_ good news for _you,_ Southern Boy!”

The elevator trundled down as Bill swung to his feet in one gleeful movement, making McGucket flinch. Bill laughed.

“Well, I’d say don’t worry,” he told him, “but you’d . . . y’know.” He gave the memory gun a little shake, McGucket’s eyes following it, transfixed.

“Now _where_ have _YOU_ been?” He thundered in the direction of the elevator.

“She woke up in transit, sir. Had trouble putting her out again,” said Whocaredwhathisnamewas. Good guy, though. Reliable. Or maybe that was his friend? Ah, what did it matter. They both stepped into the basement, struggling a little with their package.

“Looks like she’s waking up now. Hi Blondie!” Marks shifted a little and shook her head, feet scrambling a little to try and take her weight. She was waking up more with every second, thankfully. Torturing an unconscious person? What a mood-killer. With a nod, he indicated for Whocaredwhathisnamewas and What’shisface to shackle her beside her partner.

“Any sign of Pines and Pines 2.0?”

“No sir. It’s likely they’ve escaped: half our people were taken out by the time we captured these two,”

Well that was annoying.

Although . . . he did have the perfect incentives to get them back here . . .

By the time those other two had taken the elevator up again, Marks was fully conscious and probably regretting that fact. Bill enjoyed the fear on her face for a moment, then paced sedately around back to the workbench, twirling the memory gun casually on a finger and hearing her intake of breath as he did.

“Now, I know a bit – well, I _say_ a bit - about Mister Wacko here,” he said loudly over Marks’ frantic whispering to McGucket. “But _you,_ little miss, I have _pages_ about _you._ ”

He held up Pines’ journal in the silence, the gold six-fingered hand gleaming in what light there was.

“Don’t know what this is, huh? No wonder. It’s not like you’re his girlfriend or something, right?” He laughed again, and flipped it open to show her the writing.

“It’s-”

“Encoded. How _unfortunate._ Why, you’d probably have to know Stanford himself _really well_ to work this out – probably need to have at least, oh, five years of friendship with him, plus the knowledge of all his deepest darkest secrets, wouldn’t you think? _What_ a _pity_ that I don’t have anyone like that.” He tossed the book over his shoulder carelessly, hearing it split open to a random page as it landed on the bench, and leaned in close. “Oh wait – I do. _ME._ And boy, does that thing have a _lot_ to say.” He tapped the memory gun softly against her forehead.

He heard her stop breathing for a second, but like her good ol’ buddy next to her, she was a tough one. She wouldn’t be cowed by a not-so-idle threat in the darkened basement of a place she had no idea the location of where no one was coming to save her. Nope, more than that was necessary for her.

“If you hurt us there won’t be a power on earth that will stop Oracle Division and Jheselbraum from coming down on you like a ton of bricks,” said Tough Gal, and congrats to her, for there was barely a tremor in her voice.

“Heard it all before, lovely. Mostly from your friend! What’s his name again? Nevermind, it won’t matter soon anyway. So, you sit tight and I’ll be with you in _just_ a second.” He hummed idly and spun the dial on the memory gun, basking in the feel of it in his hand and the atmosphere of the room, and _especially_ the way McGucket was pressing himself back into the wall in a useless attempt to escape and the way Marks was intent on throwing herself forward in a useless attempt to attack him.

“Hmm, what to type, what to type . . .” Bill looked at the open journal, and brightened. “Well, how about that! Let’s go with your wife’s name for now, Fiddsy-pie. We’ll get to the other memories of her later, but for now, how about we just drive you a little insane over the fact that you can’t even place a name to that face? Let’s see: M-A-D-E-L-I-”

“If you touch him, I _swear_ I’ll-”

“Oh, shut up Blondie, there’s a good victim. Besides, not much you can do at this point is there? Ha! I’ve been frying his brain for the past hour and he can’t even remember it! Alright buddy, ready for the next round? Three, two, one _, GO!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And all this time later, Ivan is still monologuing. . . 
> 
> Dudes, hopefully I'll have the next chapter up by the end of January, but now that I've said this: beware. I have a rebellious subconscious that may do everything its power to make this not the case. All I can say now is, I love this, I love writing it, I love sharing it, and I really am so excited to finish it, which all counts in its favour :D
> 
> Spy trope no. 68: torture (yay!)


	14. Finale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God! It’s done!
> 
> This story has been in my head for over a year, and now I can finally bring it to a close. I’ve had this planned out since before I even started writing, and it’s such an incredible feeling to finally have it on (virtual) paper and concluded. I can’t believe how fun it’s been, guys.
> 
> I am so. Fricking. Proud of this. Enjoy.

**???** ∆

_Ford? Ford?_

He was underwater; everything was blurred. Smeared like a water painting. 

_Come on buddy, wake up. We gotta move._

He could feel something crunchy. Some _things_ crunchy. Crackling in his ear, along his cheek. Everything was swaying, rhythmically back and forth. Underwater smelled earthy… strange. 

_Okay, hold on Ford, just hold on._

Brown and dried leaves fell away from him.

A sound stopped making noise. The silence deadened everything even more so. Some kind of blast. Distant. Contained explosions. They had stopped.

Muffled swearing.

He let the depths claim him again.

 

∆

_“-Meanwhile, we go to an update on the situation in Manhattan._

_“Power still has not been fully restored to the isle, in what has now been confirmed as a planned attack on American soil. At precisely seven o’clock last night, Manhattan began experiencing massive power failures until the entire city was completely dark. As many have speculated, these blackouts were indeed _caused by several electromagnetic pulses, weapons designed to fry the circuits of any and every electronic device within their extensive range, planted in strategic areas for maximum damage. We are now receiving reports from multiple sources which outline Oracle Division, a covert government agency created to investigate and terminate anarchist extremist plots to sow chaos into the world, as the perpetrator for this crime. It seems that what was once Oracle Division’s duty to investigate has now become their duty to instigate. Up next: feel like there’s no one you can trust? No need to worry, because it seems like the end of the world is approaching anyway-”__

 

 **A Road Somewhere? (USA, Probably)** ∆

There was a loud, uncomfortable rumbling under Ford’s left ear. He opened his eyes and found himself staring at the back of a driver’s side red leather seat – the interior of the Stanleymobile. He was lying on his side, cheek stuck to the surface of the back seat.

His heartrate skyrocketed. 

“Ford, you back with me?” Came Stan’s voice.

“Yes!” He scrambled to push himself up. Stan was in the driver’s seat. Obviously. No one else was in the car.

More memories hit him.

“Turn arou-"

“Ford, shut it,” Stan’s voice was tight. “You think I’d be taking us away if we _could_ go back? We’re lucky we got out-”

“Fiddleford and Addi-”

“It’s thanks to her we even _are_ out! If she hadn’t been off drawing as much attention as she possibly could, we’d be in the same boat as her right now! So shut up, sit back, and be grateful, while I make sure that what they did is actually worth something!”

A bolt of anger fired through him. Like hell he would.

“Pull over,” he demanded.

“No,”

“What happened to Fiddleford?”

“ _What do you think?_ ”

Menace entered his voice. “Pull. Over,”

“Do you actually think you can change anything at this point? They’re long gone by this time, Ford, and there’s nothing you or any other pretentiously-named agency full of ineffective, useless people can do for them, so we are going-”

“You’re just going to _give up?_ After everything that’s happened, you decide-”

“-back to Sacramento to get Carla, and we are getting _safe-_ ”

“-that _this_ is where you draw the line of all places-”

“-because crap has _well_ and truly hit the fan and I am _not_ letting-”

“-when Bill Cipher is a bigger threat than ever and he probably has Addi and Fiddleford _right n-_ ”

“JHESELBRAUM CAN HANDLE IT FROM HERE!”

“ _PULL THE DAMN CAR OVER!”_

The brakes screeched, rubber burned, and Ford almost shot over the front seat as the car skidded to a halt. 

 

∆

_“Breaking news; a statement outlining the reason behind the closure and police perimeter recently established around the FBI field office in Roseville has just been issued by a federal spokesperson. The head of the office, Special Agent-in-Charge Ned Guy, has been killed, and agents have reason to believe that the assassin is still in the area – perhaps even inside the office itself. Further information pending, but the question remains: who sent this person, and who is their next target? Whoever it is, our thoughts – mostly along the lines of ‘I hope to God it isn’t me’ – are with them,”_

 

 **The Side of a Road Somewhere (USA)**     ∆

Ford was out of the car practically before it had stopped moving, and Stan tore off of his seatbelt to meet him.

“What is _wrong_ with you?! We have to help them!”

“Haven’t you been listening? We can’t! We have no idea where they are, and even if we _did_ know, there were at least thirty agents in that forest! How many of us are there, Ford? Two! We have a better chance of being invited into their homes for coffee and evil plans than we have of taking them on and winning!”

“We have Oracle Division, Stanley, _and_ the FBI, and we will use them because I am telling you right now that we are _not_ running and hiding from this!”

“So we act like idiots and end up like Addi and Fiddleford, who for all we know are already-”

The silence roared as Stan cut himself off, not daring to finish that sentence, and Ford fought to keep breathing evenly.

Finally, Stan looked him dead in the eye and said lowly, “Get in the car,” which brought a whole new wave of rage over Ford.

“What world are you living in that I ever would?” He snapped. “Our friends are suffering at this very moment because of _my_ mistakes, because of things _I_ allowed to happen!”

“Ford-”

“And not only that, but the _world_ is in imminent danger from that madman, and you _still_ won’t even _consider_ trying to save anyone but yourself-”

He thought Stan was going to hit him.

“Of course I tried to save them! What the hell is wrong with _you_ that you think I didn’t?! Fiddleford was _right there with me,_ and I would’ve gotten him out, _I would’ve,_ but we got separated and – and suddenly everything was going to shit and Addi was being swamped-”

“ _And you just left her?!”_

“- _I thought you were dead!_ ”

The thudding in Ford’s head quieted down and all the panic for his friends that was clawing its way up his throat in preparation to be screamed at Stan caught, his voice refusing to give it power. 

Stan looked about a second away from ripping his hair out, and he was staring desperately at Ford in mixed rage and pain and despair.

“I thought you were _dead,_ Ford! Not _in trouble_ this time _,_ not _hurt_ – _dead._ I heard gunshots, and when I ran towards them I found you, and you were lying on the ground and you weren’t moving _and I thought you were dead!_ Do you have any idea what that’s like?” His voice cracked.

A low-lit room, bitingly cold despite the pleasantness of the bar next door, two bodies bleeding out on the ground, one of which could so easily have been Stan. Yes, Ford knew what that was like.

“So _I’m sorry_ that I couldn’t do enough, and I’m _sorry_ that we can’t do anything right now, but if you think I’m ever gonna let something like that happen again, then you really are entirely as much of an idiot as you act like when you’re scared,”

With that, Stan slumped against the driver-side door, exhausted. Ford felt hollowed-out, everything inside that had been propelling him gone for the moment. On jellied legs he made his way over and leant next to Stan, tentatively pressing his shoulder against his soon after.

Stan was right. He needed to get a grip. Spoiling for a fight – with Stan, Cipher, anyone – was the worst possible thing to do at present.

So what was something they _could_ do?

His mind was blank. Judging from Stan’s equal motionlessness, he didn’t really know how to proceed either; Ford could guess, based on what his brother had just said, that until he’d dug in his own heels Stan had been (and, most probably, still subconsciously _was_ ) operating on the single priority of _get who you can safe_ with practically no other considerations until that goal was fulfilled.

The problem was, Ford wasn’t letting him complete that goal, and even though the reality check Stan had given him had been effective, his own mind didn’t seem to be able to supply a solution either.

 

∆

 _“We have previously reported that Oracle Division, notorious rogue government agency behind the Manhattan Blackout, is also more than likely involved in many other plots to sow discord and chaos among the nation, and, perhaps, the world at large. Since that time, we have received many accusations of spreading false information through speculation, contributing to mass panic, and we apologise. Here is the following correction: Oracle Division, notorious rogue government agency behind the Manhattan Blackout, is_ most definitely _behind Ned Guy’s assassination among many other disturbing events. The idea that sources can concur on any one thing is a myth, so why even bother to mention ours. We apologise, again, for the former inaccuracy,”_

 

 

 **I-I Don’t... Know** ∆

He’d gone. The- the man with the… weapon. Yes. It looked like a gun, it fi-fired like a gun, ergo, it was definitely a weapon, if not one he recognised. But the man had gone, up an elevator, and he’d taken it with him and now he and the woman were left alone in the dark.

She was staring at him, speechless, horrified, and grief-stricken. She was crying, and he didn’t know why, only that he wanted to help her. Had she been there this whole time? It was hard to recall... it was hard to think…

It was like he should be hurting – he felt like he should be so, so hurt, but it was like his head was full of fog instead, and it was hard to do anything. The thing that hurt most was his eyes… which was definitely odd because he didn’t think he’d stared into that blinding white light from the weapon all that many times. A few, yeah, but surely not enough to make his eyeballs feel like they’d been scoured with a wire brush...

He wished she’d stop crying. That wasn’t going to help anyone, and he should know.

Should he know?

... yes, he thought so. He was pretty sure it was useless by this point.

How did he know that?

He felt floaty, which was not something he was used to feeling, but he wasn’t going to complain because it was a lot better than what he’d expected.

He’d expected?

Yeah, expected. He was too tired to think further about how he’d known to expect something. His brain felt exhausted. Imagine if the next round of… (was he being tortured?)… imagine if it involved sums. A bubble of laughter made its way past his lips. Now _that_ would be torture.

Anyway, he felt floaty. Which was strange, because… because… he couldn’t stand… and he couldn’t stop shaking either. He was hanging and trembling from his wrists and his mind felt wrung out and the woman was saying something about the man going up for a phone call and they needed to get away, and she just looked even more scared when he asked what a phone call was. She explained. He snorted. That sounded like something out of science fiction if he’d ever heard it. Useful, but obviously fake. In fact, the only thing he could really feel was…

… anger. At that red book on the table. Because whenever the weapon fired, the book was consulted and it knew everything about him… didn’t it? It certainly didn’t know about – about – about… he couldn’t remember… and he was terrified more than ever for some reason because he couldn’t remember the boy’s name, or what he looked like, or –

He couldn’t remember.

 

 **Sacramento, California (USA)** ∆

“Wexler, the deal was you’d tell us what we needed to-”

“Was that I would reveal the _agents_ I know of if, and only if, Cipher is taken down,”

Carla gritted her teeth.

“Until such time as that happens, I’m afraid I will be keeping my mouth – wisely – shut. Furthermore, I believe you have yet to follow through on your promise to place me in the Witness Protection Program.” Wexler regarded her with a very much unbeaten expression and she berated herself for forgetting that he had accepted the deal to save his own skin, meaning that he remained quite firmly on the side of the Cipher Wheel until that no longer became an option.

“Well, plans change, as you and your buddies have seen fit to demonstrate. We need to know where Cipher is. _And_ what those names are, thank you very much,”

He smiled indulgently at her and kept silent.

“It’s only a matter of time before Cipher is dead or behind bars! The FBI is aware of the threat. We have in place layers and layers of resistance to meet him. He _cannot_ win!” She protested, but she’d lost him and she knew it. He’d goaded her into begging, or close enough. Even though it hadn’t been completely successful, the assassination attempt had proved that Cipher’s reach was only growing, and had flipped her and Wexler’s positions: he had the upper hand now. Every line of his body oozed confidence.

“And yet _you’re_ now coming to me, desperate for help. Where did that fierce drive to _win_ go, agent? Don’t tell me. It disappeared, along with all your friends,”

“You’re afraid of Cipher,” she snapped. Wexler shrugged. That was news to no one. “We can keep you safe, you _know_ we can. You wouldn’t have agreed to the first deal if you didn’t think so. We will still do that, but things have changed and you need to tell us what you know sooner rather than later,”

“In fact, McCorkle, I _don’t_ know that you can deliver on all your promises of safety. An assassin is still after you, are they not? More than likely they have already made their way into the building, based on the amount of time that has elapsed since the first killing. So no, thus far, you have spectacularly failed to build any kind of rapport with me or earn any sort of confidence in you. Why should I not just keep my silence, wait for the Cipher Wheel to win, and you to die?”

“DAMMIT!” Carla shouted, striding into the room she had designated as her temporary, windowless, singularly-entranced cell of an office. Jheselbraum didn’t even look up from the news report she was watching as the door slammed closed.

“I take it he’s refusing to cooperate in _any_ manner now?”

Vicious, if muttered, swearing and agitated pacing answered her.

“Has there been any word on El Dorado?” Carla reached the wall, spun on her heel, and strode back the way she’d come.

“The forest is still crawling with Cipher Wheel agents. I’ve heard nothing about Stanley or Stanford, or Agents Marks and McGucket, but we can assume that someone, perhaps even all of them, managed to escape the ambush. The forest would not be so active unless that was the case,”

Another pivot. “But at least one of them’s also been captured,” she stated flatly.

“The vehicles that have left the forest do indicate that,” Jheselbraum confirmed, a pillar of stillness in direct contrast to Carla’s flurry of movement. “As yet, none of my agents have been able to follow them without risking exposure,”

“And with Wexler refusing to talk, we have no other way of finding out where they might be going. Which is wherever Cipher is.” Carla stopped, braced her palms on the table in the centre of the room, and leant heavily on them, trying to work out the tension in her back before all the coiled muscle there snapped something important.

The next time she saw Stanley, and she _would_ be seeing him again, if only to kill him herself, she was never letting him out of her sight again. A bit of a counter-productive sentiment, but rationality had had a foot halfway out the door since the day began.

And at some point she had to deal with the assassin, who was most certainly getting closer with every minute that passed. The building was on high alert, but regardless, she doubted Cipher would have sent anyone after her who couldn’t deal with that.

She had absolutely no idea where to go from here. Other than to pick up some Witness Protection Program forms, she supposed.

A phone rang in the silence. She felt the vibration through the table and looked up to see Jheselbraum reach for the device and stiffen, staring at the screen with the closest expression to dread Carla had ever seen on the woman’s face. She turned her gaze to the screen as well.

The caller image showed a single terrifying yellow eye.

 

 **The Road Again (USA)** ∆

Eventually they’d just sunk to the ground, drained.

It wasn’t that Stan _wanted_ to admit that things looked pretty bleak... it’s just that they did anyway.

The silence between them was interrupted sharply by his phone ringing. He felt Ford jolt next to him.

Honestly, the turn the day – the past half hour – had taken meant that if it had been anyone other than Carla calling, Stan wasn’t sure he would’ve picked up. As it was, he turned on the speaker so Ford could hear as well, figuring that just because he wasn’t in the mood to plan a desperate and useless counterstrike against Cipher was no reason to keep that opportunity from his brother.

He hit the answer button.

_“STAN?!”_

Ford jumped again, and Stan flinched too. Had he accidentally turned the thing up to full volume again?

 _“Oh my_ GOD, _you’re okay, you’re okay- you are, aren’t you? Aren’t you? Oh, hell, are you hurt? How bad is it? Listen to me closely: if you see a light, and it’s not the sun, do_ not- _”_

“No, no I’m fine!” Stan assured her hurriedly. “Ford’s here too, we’re both fine,”

“We’re unhurt, Carla,” Ford supplied, and from the look on his face Stan couldn’t help but think that he was not confirming the situation to Carla but more correcting Stan’s choice of words. Stan was inclined to agree with it.

 _“_ Jesus, _that’s good to hear.”_ A pause. _“Addi and Fiddleford?”_

Stan’s stomach dropped out and Ford was silent. 

“No,” he managed to get out. “No. They’re not,”

A sigh washed over the speakers. _“I was hoping he was lying..."_

“Hoping who was lying?” Ford said sharply.

The brief quiet on the other end of the line was very telling. So much so that Stan pretty much already knew what she was going to say before she’d gathered herself enough to say it.

_“Jheselbraum and I just got a phone call from Bill Cipher,”_

“Let me guess, it wasn’t to surrender himself and his network,” Stan said, dragging a hand down his face. Ford was rapidly losing what colour he’d regained as he too worked out what Carla was about to say.

 _“No, it... definitely was not. He wanted us to get a message to you.”_ She paused again, working out how best to phrase it, and Stan really wished she would just spit it out.

After a second, she gave up and did just that.

 _“He says Addi and Fiddleford are still alive, and if you guys show yourselves quick enough, they might even remain that way.”_ She let that sink in.

 _Hearing it out loud when you’re expecting it should really be easier than this,_ Stan considered with an air of detachment.

“He didn’t say _anything_ else?” Demanded Ford.

_“Other than a few taunts and name-calling? No,”_

“So how are we supposed to hand ourselves over if he didn’t tell us where he is?” Stan exclaimed. 

_“I know. It’s a shame, but he really isn’t an idiot. He knew I’d be listening in to that call. He wasn’t going to reveal anything that might lead the FBI to him before he’s ready to fully take us on,”_

“What about you, Poindexter?” Stan said urgently, turning to Ford. “You have any idea where he might be?”

“Cipher didn’t just use one place as headquarters,” Ford said, a deep furrow between his eyebrows. “He moved around fairly often. I know of a few places he’d frequent, yes, but there’s no guarantee he’s at any of them right now, and we don’t have _time_ to check them all before he loses his patience with Addi and Fiddleford. Which is another thing! We don’t even know if they’re in the same place he is!”

 _“Yes we do,”_ Carla said unexpectedly, neatly stopping Ford dead in his increasingly hopeless rant.

“We do?” Stan looked at Ford.

_“Yes. This whole situation with me got Addi and I thinking: he’s made it clear – even more so with that phone call – that he wants to kill or capture you two himself.”_

“What situation with you?” Stan said warily.

 _“Doesn’t matter,”_ she said quickly, and he definitely didn’t believe that at all, but she was on a roll and they needed to know this, so he let it go for now. “The point is, _you’ve been too much of a pain for him not to hold a grudge. Same situation with Oracle Division,”_

“So they’ll be in the same place,” Stan nodded his understanding, and then frowned. “But that still doesn’t help us a whole lot. It just means we only have one raid to do instead of two, in a location we still don’t kn-” Stan stopped. Out of the corner of his eye, he’d just seen Ford stiffen. Looking at him again, there was the tell-tale gleam of understanding in his eye: he’d just worked something out.

“Ford?”

“I know where he is.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “I don’t why I thought it was possible he’d be anywhere else,”

_“Alright, tell me where. We can alert Tactical and take him out before knows what hit him,”_

Ford opened his mouth, and shut it again. 

“No,” he said.

“No?!” Stan repeated incredulously. “Do you want Addi and Fiddleford back or not, Ford?”

Ford’s gaze was flinty and his words were cold enough to chill the Sahara.

“If Bill didn’t think he could kill Addi and Fiddleford before a strike team managed to kill him, he would not have gotten that message to us through _you,_ Carla,”

 _“Ford, I know you’re worried about them, and I understand that their safety is paramount, but SWAT teams know what they’re doing. They are_ trained _for situations li-”_

“Their safety _is_ paramount, which is precisely why I’m not going to endanger them even more by telling you where Cipher is,”

“Oh, jeez-” The situation was rapidly flying off Stan’s well-used map of moves-that-could-be-considered-even-remotely-sane.

 _“So you’re just going to blindly hand yourselves over?”_ Carla said witheringly, as if she could stop Ford through brute force of will alone. Unfortunately, when Ford got like this there wasn’t really anything anyone could do short of getting into a fistfight with him, and Stan knew from personal experience that that would only harden his resolve.

“Of course not. We’re going to take him down ourselves. Or-” Ford faltered for the first time. “Or I will, anyway,”

He looked up at Stan defiantly, and Stan half wanted to get into that fistfight just to see if it was possible to knock some sense into the guy _this_ time. The other half of him though, was indignant. He’d followed Ford across the world to make sure he wasn’t in trouble. He’d punched more people than he could count for him, and that wasn’t even from this recent jaunt. He’d willingly been flown by someone who didn’t know how to fly, almost been shot, _actually_ been shot (and now his shoulder was hurting again, great), been drugged and dumped, chased and left behind, ambushed, momentarily convinced his brother was dead, and Ford still hadn’t been able to shake him.

Honestly, the most unbelievable thing about this situation was that Ford thought Stan wouldn’t come with him on this.

He groaned. “Weren’t you listening earlier? You don’t think I’m gonna let you do this alone, do you?”

Ford’s face broke into a relieved grin which told Stan that despite how it had sounded, he wasn’t taking this course of action lightly in the least.

There was silence on the other end of the line. Stan could practically feel Carla’s mind whirring.

 _“As soon as it’s safe to, you need to tell me where you are,”_ she reluctantly compromised.

“We will,” nodded Ford. Good. At least he wasn’t being idiotically stubborn.

 _“And Stan?”_ Her words were clipped and short, but the next ones had the hint of jaunty casualness to them, nevermind if it was a bit forced, just like they always did when they said goodbye. And because it _wasn’t_ the last time they would, Stan thought fiercely, there wasn’t any need for it to be different this time. She might not be able to stop Ford through sheer willpower, but he knew she’d be damned if she let that meant she couldn’t stop anything else that way.

 _“See ya later,”_ she said.

“Can’t leave ya hanging, can I?”

There was a brief whiff of sound that might have been a huff of laughter, and the call disconnected.

“Please tell me you have a plan,” he said as soon as it did.

“I don’t,” said Ford immediately.

Stan stared at him. “Well, at least you ripped that band-aid off quickly,”

 

 **Sacramento, California (USA)** ∆

Busy. Keep busy. That was the thing. If she kept busy, she wouldn’t have time to think about… whatever she had just condemned Stan and Ford to. She aggressively ripped the Witness Protection forms out of the printer.

 _Just get this to Wexler and mush his face into it until he agrees to sign it._ She sighed. Well, no. She wouldn’t do that. Although maybe she could get away with staring at him unnervingly until he did.

Abruptly, she pulled back from the corner she was about to turn. Window. Large window.

 _S_ _tay away, you don’t want a bullet in your brain._ _Way to go, Carla._

She turned back, striding down an alternate, less populous, route. It took her deeper into the building. 

_Get to interrogation, get to interrogation. Not far now._

And someone knocked the breath out of her.

 

 **The Road, California (USA)** ∆

“He’s not going to let them go, Ford.” Stan said flatly. “We can’t just turn ourselves in and hope for the best. Guy’s convinced he’s on the verge of plunging the world into chaos-” He paused, rethinking that statement. “Guy _is_ on the verge of plunging the world into chaos. No way is he going to stick to any deals we make with him. We need to be smart about this.”

Ford paced up and down the dusty roadside, nodding in agreement. “We should also expect that _he’ll_ expect us to try something, and he’ll be accordingly prepared. The question is, does he know that we expect he’ll expect us to do something, and therefore expect our expectant strike at a whole new level of-”

“You’re making this too complicated,” Stan interrupted, passing rapidly through stages of grim agreement, horrified fascination, and irritated dismissal. “Stop thinking about might-bes and doing that get-in-his head routine - this isn’t some Sherkey Homes adventure,”

Ford looked faintly disappointed.

“What we _know_ is that when we get there, he’s going to take our guns off us-”

“Actually, mine’s back in the forest somewhere. We only have yours now,”

Stan’s stomach dropped. “I don’t have mine either,” he admitted.

Ford’s eyebrows shot up and he warily asked, “What happened?”

Stan told him. Ford slapped a hand over his eyes.

“It’s still in the car _somewhere!_ ” Stan said defensively. “There’ll be plenty of time to find it on the drive there,”

“But you actually _lost-”_

“Shut up,”

“You shut up,”

 

∆

Her body had shut down with that blow. She couldn’t breathe. Her stomach muscles were seizing up. Before she collapsed to her knees, the assassin caught her by her collar and plunged a knife towards her throat.

She caught his wrist and wrenched it down and around, felt something give and his hand sprang open, the knife clattering to the floor. He hissed through his teeth, instinctively loosening his grip on her collar. Her legs took her weight. Her elbow took his senses.

He stumbled back, reeling from the strike to his jaw. She’d bought herself some time. Fighting back the surges of adrenaline that had her shaking and her brain screaming at her to sprint away as fast as she could, Carla focused, and her lungs seemed to expand again, filling with air, combating the pain and panic.

The assassin recovered at the same time she did. He struck first. She dodged, stepped in close, fired a punch into his side and stepped away again, springing lightly on the balls of her feet. He was driven back sharply, but that seemed to be all. Not a flicker of discomfort registered on his face as he reappraised her. Her mouth quirked in response. You didn’t have Stanley Pines as your sparring partner for long without picking up a thing or two.

_Keep it simple, keep it simple._

 

 

∆

“Alright, alright, keeping it simple.” Ford considered. Having no weapons was a substantial drawback. “We get the memory gun off Bill and use it on him,”

Stan frowned. “Good plan – except there’s no way he going to let us get that close without a fight. And do we really want to fight him while he has that thing _and_ Addi and Fiddleford?”

Before Ford could irritably point out that at the rate he was shooting down their ideas nothing was going to work, Stan straightened.

“Wait, yeah, that’s good. We should just fight him,”

“You _just_ pointed out why that would be a bad idea,” Ford said, annoyed that the one time Stan was changing his mind about a bad idea was when the bad idea was his own.

 

∆

_Not good._

One of the assassin’s legs hooked behind hers and tripped her up. His hand closed around her throat. Her back hit the door of the observation room. Her head slammed forward from the recoil and something metallic snapped. The door sprang open, and they were falling. 

 

∆

“I can keep a gun from shooting me and whoever else is around,” Stan said confidently. He had just spent a couple weeks proving it, after all. “Look, Cipher’s probably not going to be paying much attention to me – you’re the one he wants vengeance and ruination and a spike up the butt and whatnot for-” Ford winced slightly – “meanwhile, what did I do? Just tagged along and punched him in the face that one time. So, you just keep his attention and when he least expects it, I’ll grab the gun from him.”

“If he doesn’t really care about you then why would he demand you show up as well?” Ford objected. “We can’t count on that working. And even if that wasn’t the case, you grab the gun from him and then what? You don’t know how to work it, Stan,”

“So I’ll smash it instead,”

“But then there’s still the problem of Bill – _and before you say anything else,_ remember that he’ll probably have more weapons than just the memory gun on him,”

Stan closed his open mouth. That was a good point.

“So I should do it instead,” Ford stated.

 _That_ wasn’t.

“No,” said Stan instantly.

“I know how to work the memory gun. _You_ distract him, I can take it from him, use it on him, and problem solved,” Ford insisted.

Blinking away images of his brother lying motionless, Stan rallied and said, “One: I’m the better fighter,”

Ford frowned and opened his mouth to argue, probably on principle, and Stan quickly amended his statement to, “I mean, you literally cut a probe out of your head and stitched it up a few hours ago. It’d be weird if you _were_ still alright,”

Ford allowed him to continue, moderately appeased.

“Two: how am _I_ going to distract him? If he is interested in me, we don’t know why, and even then _you’re_ the one who’s been working for him for years: no matter what, you’ll be able to distract him better,”

“I refuse to believe that you wouldn’t be able to figure something out,” Ford said firmly. “Stan, it _has_ to be you. The best and quickest way we have of neutralising Bill is if we use the memory gun on him, and since I’m the only one who knows how to do that safely-”

“Safely?” Stan picked up.

Ford waved a hand vaguely. “It’s a very delicate device. If it gets even slightly damaged, the consequences of using it could be-” he hesitated – “not good. Very, extremely not good.”

Stan practically radiated a demand for a better explanation.

“Well, for a start, it could explode, and since when I constructed it I dismissed trying to extract memories in their rather abstract pure form…”

“Right, that does sound hard,” Stan acknowledged.

“I designed it to simply rewrite matter instead, and while I intended the matter to only be neural pathways, it could conceivably be anything,”

Stan stared.

“In my defence, it was just meant to be a prototype,” Ford said in embarrassment.

Stan took a deep breath. “And you thought that was easier than just trying to grab memories?”

“I did,” confirmed Ford. “But the point is, it gets damaged, bad things happen. Most likely in a… silicaceous manner,”

“Bad things,” Stan said hollowly. “Yeah,”

 

∆

The assassin was at her back, an arm wrapped around her throat, crushing her windpipe. She’d managed to get a hand under his elbow before the lock was fully on and her muscles were screaming as she strained to break it. Her vision was going fuzzy at the edges. She sucked in a sliver of air. She… she had legs.

She hooked an ankle behind his and threw all her weight backwards. He tried to shift his stance to compensate but his foot was trapped by hers and he overbalanced, falling, and she felt the jolt as they collided with something. It was just enough of a distraction to rip herself free of the hold, spin, drive a fist into the side of his face and stumble backwards, coughing violently as the air simultaneously stung her throat and cleared her mind. No time for recovery. She made herself push off the desk she was clutching and ran forward and flung herself at him and took him off his feet and hurtled into the two-way mirror behind him.

 

∆

“I’m telling you, this is the best chance we have of defeating Bill-”

“And _I’m_ telling _you,_ you’re not a match for him right now! Sure, it could work, but there’s too high a chance that you and the others would get hurt. My way will be less dangerous for everyone,”

“Besides you, you mean,”

“Yes!” Stan said vehemently.

Ford gritted his teeth. They had been running in circles with this plan for far too long, and with every minute that passed he was itching more and more to just _get underway already,_ the temptation to try and figure everything out in the car growing stronger and stronger as the thought of Addi and Fiddleford pressed increasingly insistently at him.

Stan was glaring at him, and had by now joined him in some irregular pacing. He was also occasionally clenching and unclenching his hands to let some agitation out. Clearly, he was also feeling the pressure.

He sighed, and Stan echoed it a moment later.

“Look Ford, there’s no way this is going to end perfectly,” Stan said. “We just have to go with the best option available,”

“And that’s the problem,” said Ford ruefully.

“Because you think using the memory gun on him will end it quicker, with the added bonus that it’s a poetic way to go out and will be pretty cathartic for you,” Stan said with a humourless smile.

“And you just want to do to him what you do to everyone who hurts the people you love,” Ford countered, equally pointedly. “Make sure he can’t do it again by hitting him like a ton of bricks,”

 

∆

A startled yell rang in Carla’s ears, almost missed in the cacophony created by the shock of the landing and the crash of the glass all around as they’d gone through the window.

She untucked herself from a protective ball, giving no acknowledgements whatsoever to the pains in her neck, back, shoulder, side. They were barely registering anyway. Her head was ringing. She scrambled up off the floor of the starkly-lit interrogation room, the assassin doing the same on its other side, jagged reflective fragments spread across the floor between them. Breathing hard, she got herself into a boxer’s stance, glancing at her hand when she had trouble closing it into a fist. Huh. It had a piece of glass sticking out of it.

The assassin had picked up another, larger shard. He held it firmly in his hand.

 _Oh joy,_ Carla thought numbly. _A weapon._ She decided then and there never to tackle someone through a window again.

The assassin didn’t make to move towards her. His attention had been caught by the third person in the room, handcuffed to the table and looking fairly shocked at what was going on. A person who could be very damaging to the Cipher Wheel, should he decide to cooperate.

The assassin switched targets and lunged towards Wexler instead. He leapt out of his chair and attempt to skirt around the table, but the cuffs anchoring him to the middle restricted his movements. The assassin recovered from the momentum of his first swing and jumped onto the interrogation table. Wexler paled, unable to move out of range. The assassin drew back his makeshift blade and Carla tackled him. They crashed to the floor, Carla saved from feeling most of the impact due to the combined effects of shock, adrenaline, and the relatively cushioned landing provided by the assassin.

His head had cracked against the floor. The fragment had gone deeper into her hand. The room was wavering slightly, but she didn’t think that was actually happening. She’d probably hit her head at some point. That didn’t sound right. _The assassin_ had probably hit her head at some point. Jerk.

He groaned below her, trying to get up again. Carla drew back her good hand dealt him a swift uppercut. He slumped back, and didn’t move again.

“What the hell…” breathed Wexler behind her.

_Ah, right._

Carla staggered to her feet and pushed her sweaty hair out of her face. She took a deep breath to try and get her – her everything under control, and delved deeply into her pocket. Wexler watched with wide eyes. 

Out of it she drew a very crumpled and slightly torn sheaf of papers. She laid it down in front of Wexler, brushed some glass off, smoothed it out, left some bloodstains behind, and straightened up again.

“Please sign this form to apply for the Witness Protection Program,” she said professionally.

Wexler stared, slack-jawed.

“Unless you still think the FBI can’t deliver on its promises to protect you,” she added.

Wexler’s eyes flicked to the motionless assassin behind her, and back again.

“No, I’ll sign,” he said quickly.

 

∆

No bright ideas suddenly sprang into Ford’s mind to break the stalemate they found themselves in. No desperate last-minute solutions. Nothing.

Eventually, Stan sighed, and looked away.

Then he cocked his head slightly. Ford looked back at him. He was staring at their reflection in the Stanleymobile’s windows. There was nothing out of sorts to see there, as far as Ford was concerned.

“Y’know,” said Stan slowly. “I’m really glad I got that haircut,”

 

∆

_“Ladies and gentlemen, we are just receiving word that the crisis at the FBI field office has ended, and the assassin has been apprehended with no further fatalities. We go now to Roberta Lopez, spokesperson from the FBI, and – oh, her, uh, colleague?”_

_“Thank you, yes. While the assassin has indeed been arrested and secured in a holding cell, the current situation is far from over, and before we go any further, we must inform you that Oracle Division is not _the agency behind the Manhattan Blackout and Ned Guy’s assassination as the news has been reporting. Thanks for that, by the way. Rather, they have been framed by an organisation known as the Cipher Wheel, which the FBI has been investigating for several months now. At this very moment, we are concentrating our best efforts on bringing down these terrorists before they can cause any more harm. In collaboration with Oracle Division, who Mr Colleague here is a representative of, we fully expect to be able to handle this threat. Take it away, Neil,”__

__“BOOM! How d’you like__ them _ __facts?!”___

_“Thank you, Neil. We will now take questions,”_

 

 

∆

“Well, at least he’s cooperating now,” Jheselbraum said, arms folded as she peered over Carla’s shoulder at the folder containing Wexler’s new identity.

“For the most part,” Carla muttered, scratching at the bandage over her wrist. She was covered in glass cuts and more, but had only deemed the actual stab wound serious enough to address at the moment.

“Cipher is a sticking point. He insists on the guy being dead before he spills the beans, which on the bright side means we’re back to the original deal, but unfortunately also means that the only lead we have in figuring out where Stan and Ford have gone won’t talk until such time as it doesn’t matter anymore,” By which she meant “until Stan called her to tell her where they were because they’d managed to kill Cipher” and not “because Cipher had effectively destroyed all systems of world order thereby making Wexler’s sharing of information redundant.”

Jheselbraum’s speculative voice broke through her dark thoughts.

“Actually, I have been wondering about whether he _is_ our only lead,”

Carla looked up at her with wide eyes.

“Has Oracle Division tracked down Addi and Fiddleford?” she asked eagerly.

Jheselbraum’s mouth quirked. “Not Oracle Division. And I’m not even certain she can help us. But if anyone has the ability to, it’s her.” She straightened decisively. “I’ll get back to you soon. In the meantime, perhaps you should deliver that folder to Agent Wexler, and savour the look on his face,”

Indeed she did, when she handed his new identity over a minute later. It was the least he owed her for the past few months.

“Alright Mr Toot-Toot McBumbersnazzle, it’s time to meet your new life as a travelling banjo minstrel,”

 

 **Gravity Falls, Oregon (Soon-to-be-Divided States of America)** ∆

A proximity sensor buzzed, signalling the approach of Pines, which was good news to Bill, who was getting impatient, and especially good news to Blondie and Fiddlesticks, whose heads he had been about to riddle with bullets.

“And _right_ in the nick of time, boys,” he said, grinning as he lifted the gun off the man’s forehead. All sorts of shouts and protests finished their ringing echoes around the basement, leaving a breathless stillness in their wake that left him free to speak without competition. As the prisoners sagged, he continued, “Congratulations you two, you get to live another few minutes,”

They didn’t reply. Fiddsy he wasn’t even sure _could_ at this point.

Spinning on his heel, Bill turned to the monitors.

He’d brought the brother. Good.

Stanford and Stanley were trudging across the grounds towards the cabin, their movements slow and deliberate. A smart choice, as Bill was more than capable of killing them where they stood thanks to Stanford’s enthusiasm and/or paranoia in his design of this place’s defences. It really _was_ a shame that he’d sided against Bill.

They reached the front door, hands raised in surrender. As per Bill’s orders, the agents in the house above them let them through.

“Hey, you guys wanna play a game?” Bill suggested suddenly. McGucket made no response. He just hung there, his legs no longer able to support him. What a drip. Marks though, she raised her head and fixed him with a gaze that was definitely more lost than it had been a couple hours ago.

“Let’s try and figure out what their play is.” He peered theatrically at the next monitor, putting the gun on the desk before placing his palms flat against it too, pushing his face close to the screen. The upstairs agents were searching the brothers for weapons, going over every inch of them so that not so much as a pen knife would be brought down to the basement.

“Hmmm. Hope your pals here weren’t going to try taking me by surprise.” Twisting the screen around so that she could see, he asked, “What do you think?”

Marks’ eyes flicked over to it momentarily, but she seemed reluctant to look away from him – how flattering.

Then she did a double-take, and her eyes locked back onto the screen. She looked like she was concentrating. She was even leaning forward a little, trying to see it closer, an expression like there was a word she couldn’t think of right on the tip of her tongue, but remaining stubbornly out of reach.

Bill narrowed his eyes and stepped over to the edge of the desk, where he’d laid the memory gun on top of the Journal as a bookmark. He flipped backwards a few pages until he found what he was looking for.

“Ohh, right, you gave Fordsy your own little stop-and-frisk session back in China, didn’t you?” he teased.

Her eyes flew back to him, a sudden clarity in them. Hmm. Obviously his new toy wasn’t as refined as he’d thought.

“Funny,” Bill said, tilting his head. “I thought we already covered China…” He shrugged. “Must have missed this bit.”

A brief spin of the dial and a click of the trigger and a flash of light later, and those memories were once again gone. Marks flinched back, gasping, shaking her head and blinking the stars out of her eyes. When she looked back at the search of Stanford that the agents were finishing up, there was no recognition of the situation.

“Damn thing.” He shook the memory gun a little. “What about you, your head’s not fixing itself is it?” He shot at McGucket before he replaced the device. He didn’t expect a response, but he got one anyway.

“Well, it ain’t like Ah’d tell you’f I was!” And then he cackled – yep, cackled – briefly. Huh, looked like he was finally losing it. Well, it made things livelier anyway.

Out of curiosity, Bill tried erasing the ocean from his head. There was a brief pause, but McGucket continued cackling soon after. Marks looked sick.

“Finally, one of you’s seeing the humour in the situation. I don’t mind saying, you’ve been a pair of Debbie Downers lately.” Bill rolled his eyes and replaced the gun on top of the Journal, then resumed his position in front of the monitors. McGucket’s laughs died down soon after.

Pines and Pines 2.0 were being led through the house now. Returning to his musings on their possible plans, Bill said, “Credit where it’s due, at least they’re not attacking those agents. _That_ would just be embarrassing for everyone,” If either of them so much as twitched aggressively towards an agent, the others, both visible and hidden from view, would bear down on the Pines like the wrath of, well, Bill.

No incidents occurred. Last week, Bill would have been inclined to put that down to _Stanford’s_ forethought. Now… Bill was more informed.

He watched them walk compliantly through the rooms. Another thought struck him.

“Do a perimeter sweep,” he ordered through the mike. “We don’t want Oracle Division pulling any fast ones,” The command was acknowledged, and the monitors showed an increase in activity around and within the property moments later.

He doubted Stanford would have told the FBI where he was, not with Marks and McGucket so easily within his reach, and so far his and his brother’s cautious actions were confirming that. But Bill knew Jheselbraum. If there was anything that witch was good at, it was coming out of nowhere with devastatingly unexpected strikes.

The Wheel reported that all was quiet, however. It seemed that not even she had managed to find her way here.

On the central screen, one of the agents opened the bookcase revealing the stairs down to the basement’s first level. The other two escorted Stanley and Stanford through with a warning hand on their shoulders. They moved carefully.

At the elevator the lead agent typed in the access code, the buttons on the grainy image lighting up. Turning his gaze to a smaller monitor off to the side, Bill wondered if the elevator would be where they attempted something. It was the most strategic place for it.

Stanley and Stanford wordlessly entered the small area. The three guards visibly tensed in the tighter space, clearly also expecting an attack. Bill heard the elevator begin its trundle downwards, the sound propagating through the space and filling the once again silent area. Marks wasn’t even attempting to make escape plans with McGucket anymore. The lack of whispers in the background while he was apparently distracted was new. It was probably the certainty of death that was hanging in the air. Earlier, they probably hadn’t fully realised that he _was_ going to kill them. And doing it in front of Stanford? Just a bonus.

The elevator reached the third level of the basement and its doors opened, revealing Pines, Disappointing Pines, and Guards One, Two, and Three, who had not been subdued, injured, or knocked unconscious. They pushed their charges out roughly.

Bill moved sedately over to the end of the bench, the motion alerting Stanley and Stanford to his presence. Their eyes alighted on him immediately. He settled comfortably against the edge, with the memory gun and Journal to his left, and the regular gun to his right, both easily within reach. He grinned at them.

“Just dump their weapons over there, you two,” he directed the agents.

“They didn’t bring any, sir,” reported one of them.

Bill raised an eyebrow at the Pines’. “Not very hopeful, were you?” he quipped. When they didn’t respond he continued, “Alright then, go back to your stations. Keep watch, be on guard, all that jazz. If you hear any screaming, that’ll be them. Don’t worry about it,” With a cheery wave, he dismissed them, and they turned and walked swiftly back to the elevator.

Once it started its rattling journey upwards, Bill examined his new prisoners. Stanley and Stanford returned his gaze with identical apprehensive expressions. And jeez, speaking of identical… they really _did_ look similar. The monitor screens hadn’t done it justice. Stanford of course had blood and dirt all over his shirt, and Stanley wasn’t wearing glasses, but other than that… sheesh.

“I’m glad you brought your brother, Fordsy,” Bill started conversationally. “I would _not_ have been happy otherwise,”

“You’re happy now?” said Stanford disbelievingly.

“No,” Bill admitted. “But this is _nothing_ to what I _would_ have been like,” The viciousness in his words was tempered by the palpable trepidation in the room.

“Well, you know,” said Stanley, far more flippantly than the tension in his body suggested he was capable of, “wherever we go, we go together,”

Bill gave an overexaggerated wince. “Ooh, might wanna rethink that line, buddy,”

Another difference between the two was that Stanley’s focus was solely on Bill, whereas Stanford had noticed McGucket and Marks manacled to the wall on Bill’s left.

“I assume I don’t need to do introductions?” he said lightly. Marks was looking all pathetic and desperate as she looked back at the frozen Stanford, which made Bill glad he hadn’t gotten around to burning out the latter bits of the Journal from her mind. No recognition would have been so much less entertaining, although Pines’ reaction to _that_ would’ve been a sight to behold. Upsides to everything, Bill considered.

Stanley finally appeared to notice the other occupants of the room, and the expression that crossed his face was such a mixed bag of intensity that Bill actually laughed, whereupon it just became one of hate. Stanford had _never_ been so open and easy to read. He liked this new guy.

“Addi? Fiddleford?” He asked in that rough voice of his. “You two-” He shut himself up before asking if they were okay.

“And look at that, you’re smart, too,” Bill praised. “No, Stanny, Miss Adeline and Mr Fiddleford are definitely _not_ … well, how about you tell them yourselves, guys?” He gestured for them to go ahead and speak.

Marks glared, jaw clenched tightly shut. McGucket, however, was the more noticeably silent of the two. Not only did he not speak, but he didn’t move either. He hadn’t, in all the time that Stanley and Stanford had entered the basement. All eyes were drawn to him.

“Fiddleford?” said Stanford cautiously. No response.

“You wanna tell them or should I?” Bill cheerfully asked Marks.

She swallowed.

“He- he doesn’t know that’s his name,” she said softly.

Bill nodded emphatically. “Yep-amundo! Oh, don’t look so _shocked,_ I had to do _something_ while I waited for you guys, didn’t I?”

McGucket stirred. On shaky legs, he pushed himself to stand on his own a little more. “S’my name?” he murmured to Marks.

“Y-yeah. Fiddleford,” she replied unsteadily.

Well _now_ the guy seemed a little more focused and clear-headed, and _that_ wouldn’t do at all.

He slammed his left hand down on the Journal, and Stanley and Stanford would have had to be blind not to notice McGucket and Marks flinch as he came close to grabbing the memory gun again. Instead, he picked up the Journal.

McGucket’s eyes burned as they fixated on it. Bill’s grin broadened, and he flourished it at Stanford, who’s jaw was tightly clenched.

“Look familiar? It sure does to these two, I’ll tell you that. And it’s just _chock full_ of all sorts of information! Families, histories, interests, missions… and I’m sure they both wanted _all_ of it to end up in an easily accessible diary like it did, to be used against them at their earliest convenience!” Bill gave a mock salute. “We’re ever so grateful, Stanford,”

“Ford, he would’ve just found other things to use against us, or another way to get the information-” Marks started, valiantly trying to preserve the idiot’s feelings – and sure, she may have been right, Bill _would_ have gotten the information anyway, but where was the fun in admitting that?

It was McGucket who interrupted her before Bill could, however.

“Didja write that?” The man was shaking, and not from the spot of torture. His hands were clenched tight, fingers biting into his palms. “All that- in that there book?”

Bill looked at Stanford, whose face was stonily shut down, unresponsive.

Like a switch had been flipped, McGucket chuckled suddenly. There wasn’t the slightest hint of mirth behind it, but he still shook with laughter.

“An’ Ah only had two months before retirement!”

Bill rolled his eyes. “I _swear_ I already wiped Oracle Division…” he muttered. He picked up the memory gun again and shrugged amiably at Stanley and Stanford. “The things that slip your mind, am I right?”

He spun the dial with practiced ease and loosed the bright stream directly into McGucket’s face. The Pines’ started forward.

“AH, AH, AH, BOYS!” Bill held up the memory gun. “ _Stay where you are,_ ” he warned vehemently. They did, standing further apart than before. “Good. No need to forget what the order of things is here, now is there?”

McGucket hadn’t reacted all that much to the burst from the memory gun. Bill would have wondered if it had even worked if he hadn’t stopped laughing so quickly.

“Alright, enough messing around,” he decided, leaning back against the bench once more and replacing the memory gun in its position atop the Journal, although he kept his hand on it. Pines and Disappointing Pines looked just about ready to charge, and while it would entertain him no end to have yet another excuse to hurt Blondie and Fiddsy because of them, he did want to get around to dealing out some pain for the Brothers Dim, too. That would only be delayed if he had to go and restrain them.

“You have us. Are you going to let Adeline and Fiddleford go?” Stanford said, his gaze flicking momentarily to the memory gun.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just waste my time with that question,” Bill said flatly.

“Then why are they still alive?”

In the peripheral of his vision, he saw Stanley take a step closer to him. So that was their play. One of them distracts him, the other gets the memory gun off him. Not great, and not going to work, and he would have thought that Stanford would be the one trying to wrest the thing away, but he’d play along for now. It’d make the finale all the more fun.

“Oh, because of this and that. Just never got ‘round to it, I suppose.” He turned to face more fully towards Stanford, like a thought had just occurred to him, and Stanley took the bait, edging closer.

“I gotta say, I _am_ surprised you’ve managed to stay alive up ‘til now. I s’pose you’ve got your bro to thank for that, haha. Seems like a shame though, to let all that hard and unrewarding work just… disappear,” He punctuated the word by tapping his left fingers playfully on the memory gun. Stanley came closer still. Honestly, he hadn’t even crossed half the distance! He could _definitely_ do with some pointers on strategy.

Quite happy to keep talking, Bill continued, “Y’know, what the heck!” He spread his hands wide and then dropped then back down, noticing that yes, Stanley had taken advantage of that chance too.

“Since you left, Stanford, I have to admit, there _has_ been a bit of a vacuum left in your wake, and I don’t want to fill it with just _anyone,_ you know what I’m saying? It really does need a Pines touch,”

Stanford stiffened.

Bill tilted his head innocently.

Stanford said, “No way in-”

“I’m sorry, _WAS I TALKING TO YOU?_ ” Bill thundered, and then he stuck out his right hand and grabbed the gun that _didn’t_ fire white light and shot Stanford in the chest.

 

∆

 _“A’_ course _Ah know where he is, y’think I was gonna let my husband go off in a state’f emergency without havin’ me as backup? I put a tracker under his tie this mornin’. He’s in some town in Oregon,”_

“Thank you so much for your help, Madeline,”

 _“Why don’t_ you _know where is? Jheselbraum? Why are you out of contact with him? Something hasn’t happened, has it?”_

Silence.

“Madeline, we’ll need you to transfer us your tracking frequency as soon as possible,”

Silence again.

_“Ah’m bringin’ it to ya myself. See you in twenty,”_

 

 

∆

The blast hadn’t finished echoing around the basement before Bill was turning to Stanley.

“So whaddaya say, sport? Finally ready to join the fold? I gotta admit, I was sceptical at first, but y’know what, Sixer’s convinced me! He’s been singing you praises since _months_ before you even showed up, isn’t that right Fordsy?”

On the ground behind him came a spluttering, gasping, pained noise. Stanley’s face was sheet white, his whole body frozen as if every joint was suddenly locked. Bill tossed the gun to his other hand and picked up the memory gun. So many guns! So many targets! Not the guy in front of him, though. At least, not if he made the right choice.

“All through that tour around the world, after every single mission, it was ‘Stanley this!’, ‘Stanley that!’ and I’ll admit, I didn’t wanna see it! I thought IQ over there was the golden boy!” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Stanley’s eyes finally moved to follow its trajectory – hah, _tragic-tory,_ more like.

“Wasn’t meant to be, unfortunately. Good thing you showed up! And I reckon you’re _much_ more suited to this kind of life. After all, _you_ didn’t go making friends with enemy agents first chance you got, _you_ know how to focus on what’s important, and _you_ know how to think on your feet and do whatever it takes to get what you want. And I bet _you,_ kid, know what the smart option is now, _don’t you?_ ”

Stanley staggered a little. His eyes looked distinctly wet.

“I get it, you need a moment to think. Gotta weigh up those choices. Sure, on the one hand, I shot your brother. But on the other, I could just as easily shoot you. I’ll give you…” He deliberated for a moment. “… until I next get bored to make your decision, how’s that?”

He spun around to chat to his other prisoners. Marks’ expression was delightful, it was like he’d shot _her_ instead, with that open-mouthed, shocked look, and eyes slowly filling with tears as she processed what happened. And even though McGucket wasn’t really _up to date_ on what was going on, he didn’t appear any less affected. What a guy! Bill had been telling him practically since he’d arrived that the guy who wrote the Journal was the reason for all his torture, and he _still_ only looked horrified. He was also the only other person in the room who hadn’t just _stopped,_ rock-like. Even now he was examining everything that was happening, and fixing Bill with a pretty impressive evil eye.

Stanford’s groans of agony meanwhile were growing less and less, as were his laboured breaths. Bill didn’t even spare him a glance.

Feeling the constant background thrum of anger in him spike again, he was about to turn around and demand an answer of Pines when Marks drew a quick, shuddering breath and attracted his attention.

“Got something to say, lovely?”

She was stuck for words for a moment, but quickly found something to say.

“How- how could you do that?”

Pity it was so unoriginal.

“I don’t know if you’ve _noticed,_ Blondie, but I’m a little _short_ on all those ‘heroic qualities’ you value so highly,”

“Ya- ya didn’t haveta kill him,” said McGucket, not letting the tremors in his bones stop him it seemed.

“Didn’t I, now?”

“He could’ve still been useful, fer yer – yer whatchamacall it… robotical and weaponisifyin’ office! Where all the mad folk go to unleash their minds upon the world!” He cackled again for a moment.

“You mean the R and D department?” Marks asked him.

“That too,” agreed McGucket.

Bill arched an eyebrow. “Thanks for the suggestion, but he was being far more annoying than useful by the end. And besides! Too late now,”

There was a flicker on both their faces. Wow, shooting Stanford had really rattled them, hadn’t it? They hadn’t been this in sync with each other for hours. It was almost like they had a common goal again.

Bill frowned. “You guys aren’t trying to distract me, are you?”

He whipped around just as Stanley finished crossing the distance and slammed his boot into Bill’s wrist. The memory gun went flying.

It hit the floor, threw up sparks, skidded, and whirled around and around until McGucket brought his foot down and stomped on it with a viciously triumphant expression. The shimmern bulb audibly cracked, and electricity fizzled up and down its length before dying out.

It was broken, that was for sure.

And Bill had no other copies.

And of the two men who could build another, one was all but dead, and the other was rapidly heading towards insanity.

Was Bill _angry?_ No. Was he _incandescent?_ Closer. Most importantly, he was still holding _one_ gun.

“ _YOU IDIOT!”_ He roared, and brought it up and struck Pines across the face with it. He went down hard, and Bill wasted no time lashing a kick into his side that knocked him away and onto his back. Bill advanced again as Stanley, coughing, went to scramble up.

Pines made it to his feet and threw a punch. Bill dodged it easily and sent his boot into the side of Pines’ knee, which dropped him again with an agonised yell. Must’ve already been injured. He kicked it again, snarling. Pines screamed.

Stanley was kneeling now. _Good._ Bill brought the gun around but couldn’t resist hitting him again with it. It struck his temple in the same place as the first time, colliding with his skull in a satisfying crunch, sending him sprawling. Bill brought the gun back again, finger on the trigger, _so_ ready for the sight of some blood and brains, but Pines caught the barrel and pointed it away from his face. Bill fired anyway. The bullet shot into the ground by Pines’ ear, concrete scattering, the bang deafening. The heat from the explosion scalded Pines, who yelled out again and shifted his grip off the hot barrel and over Bill’s own hands, still keeping the weapon away from himself. Bill pressed down with all his weight. Almost immediately, he began to win. Well, it was good to know that the esteemed skills and strength of Stanley Pines were so easily overcome. He must have hit him in the head harder than he’d thought.

Pines was flat against the floor now, almost all of Bill’s weight bearing down on the gun in the grip between them, forcing it slowly back towards Stanley’s face. Bill pulled the trigger again. It blasted into the concrete, barely a millimetre between that hole and the first. He pulled the trigger again. Stanley’s head jerked away from the third hole, neatly in line with the others, but he didn’t let up. Again. A fourth hole appeared, and this time the bullet skimmed his ear, the blood dripping into the cracks on the floor. Bill grinned right into Pines’ strained and desperate face. He sighted along the barrel of the gun. Pines’ left eye widened underneath it.

“ _Hey wise guy. Thought you wanted me dead,”_

No. There was no way. 

Bill looked back so fast his neck cracked.

He was on his feet. How was he on his feet?

There was a trail of blood marking where he’d crawled from his prone position. He had one hand pressed tightly just below his ribcage. He looked like any second could bring him down, but the grim set of his face gave some inkling as to how none had yet. And he was aiming the memory gun, the _broken, sparking_ memory gun that Stanford Pines would not fire in a million years, directly at Bill.

He forgot about the man under him and bounded up, one hand extended out in a wild grab-

“ _STANLEY-_ ”

-and nothing.

 

∆

The blinding flash faded from her eyes and Addi blinked desperately to clear them.

“What…”

She kind of wanted to scream, kind of wanted to cry, kind of wanted to curl up and pretend like nothing was real, but she didn’t. She didn’t, because the futile hand Cipher had outstretched was immobile, that expression of frenzied desperation permanently locked onto his face. The colour had been leeched out of him.

He’d been turned entirely to stone.

His back still to her, Ford’s arm shakily dropped and the memory gun clattered to the floor once more. He groaned and his knees sagged, and he would probably have fallen flat on his face if Stan hadn’t suddenly been there, grabbing him and offering what support he could.

“Stan? Oh God, how- how do you feel?” Stan was saying… as… he lowered… Ford to the ground…

His voice sounded _very_ different.

“Worse’n I look. Urggh, no, actually scratch that…”

And _he_ sounded different too.

No. Nononono. Wait.

Cipher had yelled out _Stan’s_ name right before…

“You _switched?_ ” she burst out, cursing herself for not seeing it sooner. Ford had six fingers, for crying out loud! And they were similar, yes, but not _identical…_

Neither twin responded, which she supposed was fair enough. F-Stan squeezed his eyes shut as Ford put pressure on the wound. There was a lot of blood, but evidently it wasn’t in an imminently fatal position – although the amount of time that elapsed before Stan got proper medical attention would still be a deciding factor. She’d seen Stan doing his best to plug it, but frankly she was amazed he hadn’t passed out yet.

Ford cursed and looked around, spying his glasses lying a little way away where they’d dropped off Stan when he was shot, and jammed them on his face with a trembling hand. Nope, she needed an answer.

“ _Why_ did you switch?” she demanded.

“We thought Ford was the only one who Cipher would be distracted by for long enough to get the memory gun off him, but he was also the only one who knew how to work it,” answered Stan, looking like he was trying to distract himself. “So we switched so I could distract him and Ford could get the memory gun off him, and hopefully everyone would come out fine.” He winced as Ford shifted. “As you can see, it worked amazingly,” he grunted.

It was possibly the most ill-advised plan Addi had ever thought anyone could conceive of. On the other hand, they had pulled it off, in a kind of roundabout way.

“Ford, get me out of here,” Addi called. “I can help, I have medical training,”

Thank God Cipher hadn’t taken _those_ memories from her.

“Not ta mention we’ve been chained to this wall fer hours and we don’t want to be anymore,” Fiddleford chimed in with a far more valid reason. When Addi looked at him, he seemed utterly confused, but she thought that was because of Stan and Ford: he’d been clear-headed enough to keep Cipher’s attention on them. That most definitely did not mean that he was fine, though; he trembled like a leaf, and he couldn’t hold himself up properly. She was getting him, and Stan, and Ford as well, to a hospital ASAP.

Ford hadn’t moved from his position tending to Stan. It was like he hadn’t even heard her. Her heart clenched.

 _Five gunshots right next to the ear, plus dazing from multiple blows to the head. He probably_ didn’t.

As if just noticing that the shirt Stan was wearing was beyond saving at this point, Ford sighed and complained – a little louder than he normally would have – “You got blood all over my clothes,”

“You got blood all over your own clothes,” Stan muttered, affronted.

“What?”

“ _You got blood all over your own clothes,_ ”

“What?”

Stan rolled his eyes and gestured towards herself and Fiddleford. “Just- just go help them down, Addi can at least recognise snark…”

Following his pointing finger, Ford’s eyes widened and he sprang up, finally remembering them. The key was on one of the workbenches, and as soon as it was jammed into the slot on Addi’s manacles, they clicked open. She hissed as her shoulders rotated for the first time in hours, her fingers and forearms tingling painfully as feeling rushed back to them, her back _aching-_

And Ford enclosed her in a hug and everything seemed a bit more bearable.

What did she know? She knew… she knew he was important to her, very important, as both a friend and something not yet defined but certainly real. She also thought that they’d probably worked together. He made her happy. He was fun, and stubborn, and she knew she needed to help him out of trouble a lot, and... damn it, what else? The little she knew of before Cipher and the basement seemed like a hazy dream. The first moment she could remember between them was… a reunion? In the El Dorado forest.

No, that wasn’t true.

A flash of memories crossed her mind. Her heart beating fast as he held her hands and leant in close. The breath literally being driven from her as he elbowed her in the gut and immediately looked horrified. His suddenly nervous but pleased expression as she asked him to buy her a drink.

Reluctantly, she let him go, and made her legs stumble over to Stan. There would be plenty of time to puzzle out the past later, when they _weren’t_ dying.

She shook her head and dropped down beside him.

“How’s your breathing?” _Other than painful and quick._ “Difficult? Do you feel like coughing?”

“Nah. Kinda hard to focus, though,” he said, head lolling around to her.

“That’s the blood loss. Try and stay awake, okay? Tell me all about, uh…” She faltered at the realisation that she didn’t know him well enough to bring up his interests. Then a name burst into being behind her eyes.

“Carla! Tell me all about her.” She bent down and listened to the hole in his torso, moving his hands for a moment. She couldn’t hear any air. The bullet had missed his lung then. His hands felt clammy as she pressed them back down. He was in shock, too.

“Ford, we really need to stop this bleeding,” she said, interrupting Stan’s rambling. Ford straightened up from helping Fiddleford to a chair.

“Right.” His gaze passed rapidly over all of them in succession, lingering harrowingly on Stan. “I’ll- I’ll go upstairs and call for help-”

“No, ya darn well ain’t gonna, Stanford Pines!” Exploded Fiddleford. “’Cause there’s a veritabibble _army_ of Cipher Wheel murder-machines dressed’n human form up there and I haven’t had a cat-piddlin’ second to design my _own_ murder bot fer a counterattack!”

Addi stilled. The Wheel. It was still active. And the only reason she and her friends were still alive was because they didn’t know their boss was now a garden ornament. If they came down here, out of all of them she was the only one who would have any kind of chance at fighting back – Stan needed immediate medical help, Fiddleford couldn’t stand on his own or stop shaking (and that wasn’t even addressing his mental state), and Ford was one good hit away from collapse himself. It really shouldn’t be up to the girl with a mind like swiss cheese to protect them all, but it appeared it was.

The elevator came to life and dinged open.

“Area secured,” Carla McCorkle, dressed in full tactical gear, said into her mike.

“We found ‘em. They’re in th’basement,” her partner breathed in relief, throwing her head back and slumping.

Her partner…

“Maddie!” Addi cried.

“Addi!” Madeline McGucket responded automatically.

 

 ∆

 _“It seems that trouble has once again come to Gravity Falls. In a shocking turn of events, the creepy cabin in the woods that we all feel like is watching us when we go near it and out of which strange sounds and black-ops-looking type people occasionally enter, has been the headquarters for a mad spy organisation_ this entire time. _It was stormed by the FBI and Oracle Division – whatever that is – not two hours ago, and four severely injured individuals were safely recovered from the basement, in which they had been held prisoner by the leader of said mad spy organisation, Bill Cipher. In events that are not entirely clear, Cipher had been… turned into a statue? Is this right? It is? Alright then… Cipher had been turned into a statue. When it was brought up out of the house and our reporter on the scene questioned whether Cipher might still be alive inside it, the thing was fly-kicked into a million pieces by one of the aforementioned prisoners, a Mr Fiddleford McGucket, to assorted cheering from the other prisoners, the FBI, the Oracle Division agents, random spectators, and the mad spy terrorists themselves. To conclude, the answer to that question is a resounding ‘no’._

_“Meanwhile, the prisoners themselves are receiving treatment at the scene, as they are apparently too stubborn to leave things in other people’s hands…”_

 

 

∆

From what Stan could see from his position lying on the stretcher in the ambulance, the clean-up seemed to be going well. Red and blue lights flashed into the night, and an almost continuous stream of Cipher Wheel operatives were being led out of Ford’s house, loaded into FBI vans, and driven away. It was much easier to take in his surroundings now that pain and cold fear weren’t pulsing through his body; the paramedics had given him something, and now the entire left side of his body was numb. And they’d assured him he wasn’t dying anymore, which was a relief. Also, they’d bandaged up that bullet graze on his shoulder. It was nice to be looked after.

Carla’s fingers were winding through his hair.

“We’re getting married as soon as possible,” she said. She was sitting in a chair next to him, occasionally touching the plaster the paramedics had insisted on putting on her multitude of cuts and scrapes.

“We are?” he asked.

“We are,” she confirmed. “I don’t trust you not to go off on yet another adventure and do something reckless and get yourself shot again before our wedding day,”

“ _Me_ do something reckless?” Spluttered Stan. “You tackled an assassin through a window today!”

“But _I_ didn’t almost die!”

“That bandage over your wrist arteries and those bruises around your throat beg to differ,”

She flicked his nose.

“Ow!” He decided to let her idiocy go, at least until he could properly defend himself. “Yeah, let’s get married soon,” he agreed.

The last of the Cipher Wheel agents were driven off.

“So, case closed, huh?”

“Almost, thanks to you,” she smiled. “There’s still moles in practically every agency on the planet, I’ll bet, not too mention all the bureaucratic higher-ups Cipher had in his pocket – Jheselbraum’s superiors, for one. Fortunately, Wexler is free to help us with that, now,”

Stan groaned. “I thought you were going to take a break! What happened to us having some time off together?”

Carla blinked, startled. “I- uh, well, I’m still needed, there’s still things to-”

“Agents! There you are,” Came Jheselbraum’s voice.

Tilting his head, Stan saw her standing at the entrance of their ambulance.

“I couldn’t help overhearing the tail-end of that conversation,” she stated, “and I’m afraid Carla is right, Stanley. There is still much to see to with regards to the Cipher Wheel investigation,”

Stan’s heart sank.

“In fact, Carla, as a reward for the extensive amount of time and effort that you have put into this case, as well as the exceptional valour, initiative, and determination you have displayed these past few hours in the midst of crisis, I have taken it upon myself to use my not-inconsiderable influence to offer you a promotion,”

Carla’s face lit up.

_Great. More work for her to take on._

Jheselbraum continued, “This will enable you a firmer command over the investigation, and I expect you’ll want to take full advantage of the _delegative_ duties now available to you,”

 _Delegative duties? Well, just because it doesn’t_ sound _like more work doesn’t mean it_ isn’t…

“I should also mention that this promotion comes with the condition that you take appropriate steps to address the large amount of stress and mental strain that this has placed upon you. Whatever those steps may be,” Jheselbraum looked from Carla to Stan, and back again. “Some leave, perhaps? Or time to work from home?”

For one heart-stopping moment, Stan thought Carla was too proud to accept. A few different expressions warred on her face, until something in it cleared.

“I’ll take that as a yes, Supervisory Special Agent McCorkle,” Jheselbraum smiled.

Carla sat back in her chair, breathing out slowly, and then grinned at Stan, who beamed broadly right back.

“So that’s that, Agent McCorkle?”

“That’s that, Mr Pines” she agreed.

Stan looked out of the ambulance again. Directly opposite, another ambulance was parked, its back doors open to them. He raised a hand in a brief wave to Addi and Ford, who were cuddling with their legs swinging off the edge of the ambulance floor. Ford had finally gotten some proper stitches in his head, as well as a bandage around it, and a knee brace. Addi was physically fine, but had a shock blanket draped around her shoulders. His brother smiled back at him.

“How often do ya put trackers on me?” Fiddleford wondered. _His_ ambulance was next to Ford’s.

“Only when there’s a big whoppin’ emergency,” Madeline answered. Fiddleford was sitting up on his stretcher, and Madeline had joined him on it. The tremors had all but stopped, Stan was glad to see. Those were what had scared Madeline and the paramedics the most, but it had apparently only been shock symptoms, and wasn’t indicative of any kind of lasting brain damage. That hadn’t stopped Addi from flatly stating that both Fiddleford and herself were going to be booked up in mental therapy for the next few months, an action which Stan for one wholeheartedly agreed with.

Funnily enough, Fiddleford’s erratic speech was nothing to worry about. Madeline had disclosed that it wasn’t that out of character for him. He was way worse when he was drunk, apparently.

Something that balanced out the heartbreak that Madeline had shown when Fiddleford hadn’t entirely recognised her was the amazement and happiness on his face when she managed to tell him that she – at this point flushed from the action of the conflict with the Cipher Wheel agents, dressed head to foot in tactical gear, and backlit by the light from the elevator like some sort of avenging angel come to save them all – was his wife. Since then he’d seen Fiddleford staring off into space occasionally, just thinking things over.

“So what’s happening to Oracle Division?” Carla asked.

“We’re dissolved,” Addi replied. She nodded off to where Jheselbraum had moved to talk to some FBI officials. “The director said our mission’s over. The FBI has it handled from here, and Oracle Division agents will be picked up by other departments,”

“Is that what's going to happen to you?” Stan inquired, looking between her and Fiddleford.

Addi hesitated.

“Like hell it is!” Fiddleford snapped for her. “Whatever son of a bitumen road tries to stop me from retirin’ right this minute is goin’ ta be _sorry._ Ah’ve had it up to here with spies!”

“Fair enough,” Stan said, as Madeline high-fived him.

“I think I’m done with that scene for a while too,” Addi said, nestling closer to Ford.

“In that case,” Ford said, clearing his throat, “since I appear to be out of a job as well, how would you like to stay here with me? I’ve been thinking about going the scientific research route for years now, and this seems to be the perfect opportunity to do it,”

“Wh- really? Yes, of course! I’d love to!” Addi exclaimed, lurching off his shoulder to look him in the eye.

Happy as anything, Ford leaned forward so he could see into Fiddleford’s ambulance. “You’d be welcome too, Fiddleford. I can also look back over the memory gun schematics, see if I can reverse-engineer them. Any chance to make things right-”

“Ford, ‘making things right’ isn’t going to happen,” Addi interrupted.

Ford looked shattered.

Addi blanched. “No, no! That’s not what I meant! It’s because the memories are coming back on their own! We don’t need you to make a reverse-memory gun!”

“Wait, they are?” exclaimed Stan.

She nodded at him. “Every now and then another one gets triggered,”

Ford looked at Fiddleford. “Is this happening with you as well?”

“It is. Maddie’s been tellin’ me about Tate, and I’m rememberin’ him better all the time,”

“Well then maybe-” Ford reached behind him and grabbed the Journal, which he’d taken from the basement – “it would help if I recounted our missions together… that is, if you want my help…?” He looked uncertainly at Fiddleford. Stan winced as he remembered the anger he’d seen on the man’s face as Cipher had indicated the Journal.

Fiddleford sighed. “Stanford, Addi’s right. Cipher didn’t need that thing to hurt us, it was just convenient for him. Ah’d greatly appreciate yer help, and,” He glanced at Madeline, who shrugged in an easygoing manner, “Ah’d be happy to work with ya in th’future,”

Relief crossed Ford’s features.

Stan privately noticed that Fiddleford was clearly – to him at least – holding back quite a lot. Those first sentences had a rigidity to them that Stan thought probably meant that while Fiddleford could say them, and know they were true, there was still a way to go before he would really _believe_ them. However, the fact that he _had_ said them meant that things were already looking up.

“So you’re… doing okay?” Carla cringed at the inadequacy of the question.

“Improvin’,” Fiddleford nodded. “The memory gun stopped workin’ on me after a while, so that’s helped. Don’t think Cipher noticed, or cared too,”

“It did?” Addi asked, wide-eyed. “I mean, thank God, but… it did?”

At Fiddleford’s shrug, Ford straightened up. “That’s incredible! Perhaps you built up a resistance to the ray, or maybe the gun lost its power after a while – although that wouldn’t explain why it continued to work on Addi… I wonder, if we took an MRI of your brain-”

“Ford, are ya a neuroscientist?” Madeline asked with an amused tilt to her head.

“Ah, no-”

“Then leave it alone fer now. Let’s just relax for a while,”

Ford gave an embarrassed grin and Fiddleford squeezed his wife’s shoulders contentedly.

“All that bein’ said,” he piped up suddenly, irritation entering his voice. “Writin’ down yer top secret escapades was an idiotic thing ta do, Stanford, and if I’m goin’ to be workin’ with ya, you’ll be usin’ a computer, yer hear?”

“Computer’s can be hacked,” Ford responded weakly.

“Not mine,” said Fiddleford grimly.

Ford nodded his acquiescence, not that he had much choice, and then turned hopefully to Stan and Carla.

“We’ve already got jobs,” grinned Stan.

“We’ve also got some mandatory leave,” Carla put in. “I’d be happy to spend it here. After all, we’ve got ten years to catch up on, Ford,” She offered, and laughed as Stan immediately agreed to the idea. He was in no way ready to say goodbye to his brother yet, and he didn’t think Ford wanted him to leave yet either. There was still plenty of sappy hugs and conversations to have before then. And it looked like they were about to start now, as Ford opened the Journal on his lap, pressed a kiss to Addi’s hair, rolled his eyes at Stan’s eyebrow waggle, and began to read.

What had his life been like two weeks ago? He’d had a girlfriend who loved him, but who had also been extremely pressured by her work. He’d had a steady-ish job, but no friends. And a brother who he hadn’t seen in five years. Two weeks ago, life had been lonely, and quiet.

Now, he had a _fiancée_ who loved him and whose case was all but wrapped up so she wasn’t in danger of dying of stress, he had taken down a terrorist and probably deserved a medal or some cash or something, he had two very firm friends who pulled stunts _he_ found completely nuts but which probably meant that they weren’t about to be scared away any time soon, and a brother who wanted him around, who liked talking to him, who once again wanted his help and wanted to help him in return.

Now, life was moving on to better things, and he was looking forward to their next adventures even more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring: the end of the story, and Fiddleford's patience; the reason why the mullet had to go; a lack of knowledge about how Witness Protection works; and my excitement at not having to sit on this ending any longer. I am also on tumblr as a-mad-scientist-approaches. 
> 
> Spy trope no. 69: Injuries, so many goddamn injuries.  
> Spy trope no. 70: Damn right there's a happy ending and no lasting awful consequences!
> 
> As a parting gift, here are some excellent spy movie recs:  
> Get Smart (2008)  
> The Man From UNCLE (2015)  
> Mr and Mrs Smith (2005)  
> Keeping Up With the Joneses (2016)  
> The Hitman's Bodyguard (2017)


End file.
